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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477764">Rituals &amp; Reckonings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface'>skimmingthesurface</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylWritesStuff/pseuds/SylWritesStuff'>SylWritesStuff</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Communication, Blood and Injury, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Established Relationship, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), demon lore, they'll get there eventually</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:55:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,646</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477764</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylWritesStuff/pseuds/SylWritesStuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Way back in the days of polytheism, Hell sowed the seeds of its own destruction. Now with Armageddon't behind them, an angel and a demon look forward to a life together. A life those sown seeds threatens whether Crowley is ready to admit it or not.</p><p>--</p><p><i>"It is unwise to summon what you cannot dismiss."</i> - Neil Gaiman, Sandman #50</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GO-Events POV Pairs Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the GO POV Pairs Event over at <a href="https://go-events.tumblr.com/">GO-Events</a>.</p><p>Skim wrote for Aziraphale, and Syl has written for Crowley. Both have had a very emotional time with it, lol. Or, as Skim put it... Syl's the Rituals and Skim's the Reckoning 🤣</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Our prompt for the POV Pairs Event was this picture of a cottage: </p>
<p>We thought it was a little creepy, so here we go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1989</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>A Warehouse</strong>
</p><p>It wasn't like the other times. Crowley knew that immediately upon reforming. The pain was so sudden and intense that he immediately hit his hands and knees, wheezing as he was shocked awake. </p><p>“Demon Crawly,” a voice began and he looked up, blinking blearily and realizing he didn't have his sunglasses. He'd been in bed, asleep, and now he seemed to be in a... A warehouse somewhere, wherever <em>this</em> was. The bloke sounded American, but that meant little in this day and age. Expats everywhere. </p><p>He made himself sit back on his heels, grimacing at his lack of shoes, and suspiciously studied the circle he'd found himself in. It looked like normal enough salt, but there were metallic bits in it. Iron, maybe? Must be. It explained the pain. The pressure. The inability to put his wings away. Black as night, they were out and brushing against the edges of the circle. It burned, feathers sizzling painfully until he drew them closer. He was wholly there in this summoning circle, and right alongside the steadily intensifying pain was a frisson of fear. </p><p>Crowley looked around him, counted the humans. Four of them, surrounding him like points of a compass. They weren't exactly <em>young</em>, though that didn't alleviate the fear. The older people got, the harder they were to tempt. They were more set in their ways. And none of them were smiling. He hadn't been called there for fun. </p><p>“Hi, guys,” he greeted, sounding for all the world like this was an average social call. “Y'know, if you wanted to get a hold of me, telephones work wonders. Letters are always a good idea too.”</p><p>The human North of him frowned. “Silence, foul demon.”</p><p>“Foul?” Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “That's a bit rude. I do shower. Good for the skin and all.”</p><p>“He told you to shut up!” </p><p>Crowley looked Westwards, arching a brow at the testy woman. Also American. “That's not how these things normally work. It's a negotiation.”</p><p>“We're not here to negotiate,” South drawled. Maybe he was in the States. Grand. It had been a minute since he'd visited. </p><p>“Fine, fine. Tell me what you want, I'll tell you the cost. We'll all go on our way.” His smile was too sharp, fangs long and tongue forked. He wouldn't be able to hold onto his limbs for long, but he clung to his human form as tightly as he could. It would be faster that way. </p><p>“We want you to die,” North said plainly. “Satan has infiltrated this great nation's youth and we <em>will</em> eradicate sin.”</p><p>Oh, bollocks. The Satanic Panic. He’d heard about it, of course, as it wasn’t exactly a <em>new</em> thing. Hell was already on his back about it, this panic leading to more summonings than was precedented and by the, ah, wrong people. Or the right people, depending on how fond someone was of demons. Holy water had been used liberally on far too many for comfort. He couldn't sense any of it here, but there wasn't much of anything outside of this painful circle. He couldn’t stretch beyond it in any sense. “Sort of impossible, actually. I mean, the whole eradication thing... Myeeegh. Not really plausible, is it? Hasn't been since the whole apple business, actually.”</p><p>“Satan may have fooled Eve, but we will not be taken in so easily.”</p><p>Crowley bristled. He should be used to having his temptation credited to the wrong being, but it was still insulting. Besides, he hadn't <em>fooled</em> her. He'd told Eve the plain truth and she and her Adam had made a <em>choice</em>. If it hadn't been for that choice, the Garden of Eden would be awfully overpopulated by now. They should be thanking him. </p><p>“Look, I get it. You're going through a whole national crisis. That doesn’t have anything to do with me.” No matter where Hell wanted to place the blame. “Let's just- Oi!” He hissed when something poked his back. Not because it hurt, but because it was uncalled for. He looked back and got jabbed again. An iron bar, clasped in metalworking tongs. Rolling his eyes, Crowley wrenched the bar away and pushed the tongs. “Some kinda joke, right?” </p><p>South glared at East, and Crowley noticed the pastoral collar for the first time. He could feel his chest tighten. “Y'all said this'd work!” </p><p>“It's supposed to,” East replied calmly. “Did you put the holy water on it like I instructed?” </p><p>Crowley’s heart dropped to his knees. For once in his existence, East was a very dangerous direction. They all were if holy water was involved.</p><p>“No,” South grumbled. “Iron's s'posed to work on its own.”</p><p>“No, it needs to be in a horseshoe shape, mixed with salt, or doused with holy water. Why do you think we didn't just make a salt or iron circle on their own?” As patient as a pastor ought to be, he sighed and gazed at Crowley. “Demon Crawly, we have summoned you here to be scrubbed clean from this world and all others. We may not be able to eradicate all sin, but if we go with God, we can eradicate the Hellish sources. Even if we have to go one at a time.”</p><p>He removed a vial from his pocket and Crowley winced despite himself. He couldn't leave the circle. He couldn't perform any miracles to break the circle. He was good and trapped with four humans, a sense of Godly justice, and holy water. More, he was alone. Most definitely in the States, nearly as far as he could get from his only ally. It wasn't as if they'd been together when he'd been whisked out of his flat. Somehow, they'd never been together during one of his summonings. Before this exact moment, he'd thought that was lucky. </p><p>The pastor stepped forward and upended the vial of holy water, spilling it over the salt and iron, and it <em>burned</em>. Not the way fire did, no, but in the way of cold. The stabbing sensation seemed to go straight to his bones. He skittered back with an involuntary hiss, but his wings smacked the invisible barrier and singed the feathers even worse. <em>Fuck</em>. </p><p>In a flash, he was a snake. Small, thankfully. He hadn't been forced to his proper, impossible size, but he wasn't exactly the size of a worm either. He reared back and hissed, fangs threatening. He was very aware that he was acting like a trapped animal, but his only ally was very far away. His friend, his <em>best</em> friend. And, oh, how was the angel ever going to find out what had happened to him? Who would tell him he'd been destroyed? His <em>replacement</em>? Or would no one tell him? Would Aziraphale wonder for the rest of his days what had happened to him? </p><p>Or, worse, would Aziraphale assume he'd settled in for another one of his extended naps? Would he not even <em>notice</em> that Crowley was gone for another century, two, three? And what would Aziraphale do when he realized he was alone? As much as the angel never wanted to admit it, they were <em>friends</em>. Crowley had a tartan-patterned thermos in one of his safes, filled with an angel's holy water. They were <em>friends</em> and, just as Aziraphale was Crowley’s only one, he knew he was Aziraphale’s only one. The occasional dalliance with a human aside, they only had each other. And these- These <em>idiots</em> were going to ruin nearly six thousand years of waiting and hoping... </p><p>He curled up as tightly as he could, pain still quivering through him as he stayed away from the small pool of holy water. And then the pastor drew out another vial. No, no, <em>no</em>-</p><p>“A snake, I see. I'd assumed you would be from the name.”</p><p>Sometimes, Crowley loved the cleverness of humanity. Other times, he was trapped in a summoning circle. “Congratulationsss. Nailed it. Well done, you. I'd applaud, but my handsss aren't here at the moment.”</p><p>West huffed behind him. “Just hurry up and kill it.”</p><p>“<em>It</em>?!” Crowley whipped his head around, a decided benefit to being a snake. “It'sss <em>him</em>, at presssent. If you're going to murder me, you could get the pronounsss right.”</p><p>“You can't murder a demon,” North scoffed. “We're destroying evil.”</p><p>“Me, evil.” He tossed his head, the pinnacle of snakelike offense, but East was watching carefully. East with his holy collar and holy water. Crowley hoped he was also listening. “What have I done to you? I was at home, asssleep, and now I'm here about to be killed. According to your American laws, thisss is firssst degree murder.” And there were too many damned S's in the English language. </p><p>“Besssides,” he continued, “who are you lot to choose who livesss or diesss? Doing the Almighty'sss job? God didn't kill usss.”</p><p>“Ignore 'im,” South snapped, all eyes on the hesitating East. </p><p>Please, please, please-</p><p>Before a choice could be made, the world trembled. It trembled and rattled for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Longer than when a bomb had fallen onto a church in 1941. There wasn't an angel around to keep the debris from landing on him and his own miracles were still very useless. All he could do was switch forms and cover himself with his wings as the warehouse they were in collapsed around him. </p><p>The intensity of the earthquake split the floor right beneath him, Crowley letting out a gasping sob he'd never admit to when the miracle he'd been desperately, desperately, <em>desperately </em>trying finally worked. </p><p>He was outside in the daylight, wings singed at the edges, skin stinging as if he'd been sunburned, and still getting rattled. Another five seconds went by, and the world finally trembled to a stop. He was bruised and aching inside and out, something deep in his ears ringing and ringing. Collapsing onto his side, Crowley just breathed and stared at the fallen warehouse he'd been trapped inside. </p><p>Death gave him a casual wave as he searched amongst the debris and Crowley simply shut his eyes. Good riddance. </p><p>Eventually, the ringing in his ears stopped and he pushed himself up, whisked his wings back to the ether. It didn't remove the scent of burnt feathers or the pain rippling over them, but he had other things to do. One specific thing to do, a quick shift putting him a city over. All he’d pictured was a phone booth, confidant that he’d end up at the nearest one without any fuss. Teleporting wasn’t exactly <em>easy</em> or something he played around with much, but he’d needed to get away and he needed- Well. He needed. Although he could hear nothing but sirens and distant shouting in the area he’d materialized in. He looked at a collapsed viaduct without seeing it, walking towards a payphone on the corner instead. There wasn't a signal, but he didn't need one. </p><p>“Aziraphale,” he interrupted when the phone was answered. It sounded cracked to his own ears, so he scrubbed a hand over his face. There was so much to say. <em>I almost died. I was asleep and now I don't know where I am. But I almost died, and I never told you- </em>“I...” He was fine, he told himself, swallowing what he'd never said as he always did. He was fine. A quick snap and he was even dressed properly, out of his pyjamas and into his denims and shirt and boots and he was <em>fine</em>. “Look, I'm gonna misss lunch tomorrow.”</p><p>“What? Crowley, what are you- Those aren’t sirens, are they?” The angel’s tone was steeped in confusion as the chaos around Crowley filtered through the phone line. “What the Devil are you up to at this hour?”</p><p>Crowley leaned against the side of the booth, squinting at collapsed buildings. Waves of pain, shock, terror crashed over him from the people trapped or just stunned by the massive earthquake. It really wasn't helping his own mental state, so he focused on the voice in his ear. “What time is it?” </p><p>“It’s…” There was a brief pause as the angel likely stopped to check his pocket watch, “after one o’clock in the morning. Where are you?”</p><p>“Um.” Crowley rubbed his thumb against his brow, trying to think. It was daylight, he was definitely in the States, and there had been an earthquake. Which one of those had earthquakes? “California,” he guessed. “Think that makes it, mngh, five or something.” Explained all the cars on the collapsed freeway. He could see Death's shadowy figure duck right under the ruined asphalt and blew out a weary sigh. That didn't inspire a good riddance. “Sirens aren’t my- I didn’t do anything. There was, ah, an earthquake. What was that last big one? 1906 or something.”</p><p>“You didn’t say anything about going to California this morning.” There was so much to parse through what Crowley was and wasn’t saying, Aziraphale sounded like he was struggling to find his footing in the conversation, like he was the one standing on broken pavement. “Were you summoned there?”</p><p>Crowley froze, his corporation's heart stopping mid-beat. “Wot.”</p><p>“Did Hell summon you there?” he repeated, more insistently.</p><p>He pressed the phone against his shoulder, barely muffling a string of nonsense sounds as his body jumpstarted again. He really shouldn't have called. He should've pulled himself together better first. He could've bloody waited to hear Aziraphale’s voice, for Satan's sake. “A Hell thing, yeah. The States are all ssstirred up, still having their Satanic panic and all, so there's... There's ssstuff. The earthquake wasn't part of it. Got me away from a fucking pastor your side just picked up, though, so that was... a thing.”</p><p>“Crowley…” He could hear the way Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased in badly concealed concern. “Is everything alright? You don’t sound…” There was a beat, a pause in which words could be carefully selected in case anyone was listening. “Do... <em>arrangements</em> need to be made?”</p><p>Crowley nearly laughed, but was terrified it might come out a little hysterical. He was a fucking idiot. He didn’t want the Arrangement. He wanted his fucking <em>friend</em> to... to what? Offer some bleeding comfort? It wasn’t what they did. It wasn’t safe. “No. No, it's- He and his pals are dead, so it's over on my end. No holy water baths for me. You might get a list of things for your next report, though. M'already here and all.”</p><p>“Crowley! You can’t joke about such things!” Aziraphale admonished, the sound of hurried footsteps and the whisper of cloth revealed he was pacing, nearly drowned out by the commotion all around Crowley. “There has been a proliferation of exorcisms in that part of the world as of late and their use of holy water is imperative to the process. I don’t even know why Hell would think to summon you there. There is a <em>very</em> real chance someone out there could destroy you!”</p><p>“Angel, I... I wasn't joking,” he murmured, tipping his head back and letting his eyes close. He could picture him pacing, that stupid old phone in hand. Was he wearing those pointless spectacles? Crowley hoped he was. He added it to the mental picture. It was easy enough, Aziraphale a stable, steady constant for so long that Crowley could envision him without a thought. Not a single bit of effort could bring him to mind and, too often, did. Even nearly dying, his mind had turned to this angel. Was that pathetic? Was he pathetic?</p><p>Crowley took another shuddering breath. He was. He truly was because, in the quiet that followed that revelation, he was foolish enough to ask, “Would you have missed me?”</p><p>There was stillness on the other end, silence buried beneath the city’s destruction. There was no huffing or tutting or even a flat out denial. <em>Of course not, I am an angel and you are a demon. We don’t miss each other.</em> Even if they both knew it was a lie.</p><p>There wasn't a <em>yes</em> either, though. The silence stretched and lingered, and Crowley opened his eyes to see that hooded figure still making his rounds. It was stupid to want an answer. To think he'd get one. But he'd been sound asleep one moment and begging for his life the next. In another plane, his wings ached and on this one, he wanted to lie down and sleep the rest of the pain away. </p><p>He'd just wanted to hear the words for once. He’d needed them. Something concrete to prove it would matter if he was gone. <em>Please, no one’s listening. Don’t you care about me too? I know you do, but do you?</em> But the silence, the stillness hung, and Crowley was just an idiot. “Right... Ah. Ngk. Yeah. Death's wandering, so I'm gonna... go. See you, er, next week, I think.”</p><p>And then, carrying a fresh ache, he hung up the phone and left the booth to see if he could give Death less to do that afternoon.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>Present Day</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Mayfair</strong>
</p><p>Were anyone to ask Crowley what the worst part of being a demon was, he might say Hell itself. Dark, grimy, unpleasant, and filled with other demons and enough damned souls to make the whole thing thoroughly <em>gloomy</em>. It was a safe, plausible answer and, to be honest, all demons would say Hell was the worst part of being a demon. </p><p>Were anyone to ask Crowley what the worst part of being a demon was, he might say paperwork. It was virtually endless, designed to give papercuts, usually needed in triplicate, and just plain <em>annoying</em>. It was a safe, plausible answer and, to be honest, all demons would say paperwork was the worst part of being a demon. </p><p>Were anyone to ask Crowley what the worst part of being a demon was, he might say other demons. They were violent, unpredictable, mistrusting, untrustworthy, stupid, and unceasingly <em>disgusting</em>. It was a safe, plausible answer and, to be honest, all demons would say other demons were the worst part of being a demon.</p><p>As good as these answers were, however, they would’ve been lies had anyone asked Crowley. </p><p>Were one specific angel to ask Crowley what the worst part of being a demon was, he would say summoning. The angel hadn't asked, though, and the demon hadn't offered. </p><p>There weren't <em>necessarily </em>secrets between them, especially not now with Armageddon behind them. It was just a small, little, tiny, miniscule omission, and it all really boiled down to a book. A book and a second safe in the Mayfair flat. He opened it carefully, scowling at the innocuous leather-bound first edition. It, and every copy since, pulsed with evil. It made the copies easy enough to find and destroy, and he had done. He’d scoured continents for it, both after and between his own summonings. He’d been intent on destroying every single copy as he'd done to the scrolls before the book, as focused on the destruction as he was on keeping it from Aziraphale. </p><p>And <em>maybe</em> he was feeling a smidgen of guilt for hiding this, but the book and its meaning were several thousand years old now. By Someone, he couldn't even remember the exact year anymore. But he remembered the pinched brow, the soft creamy shade of off-white robes, the blue eyes gone stormcloud grey. </p><p>“Hello, Aziraphale.”</p><p>The quick, nervous glance. “Crawly. How nice to see you.”</p><p>“Oh, someone's stressed out.” A petulant moue that made him grin. “What's all this, then?” </p><p>“Er...” Looked out, both of them, at the expanse of land, watching humans build some sort of stone statue. “You don't know?” </p><p>“Just popped in. That s'posed to be some sort of person?” Quiet, quiet, quiet. “Angel?” Still new then. Still just a label. </p><p>“I'm terribly sorry, dear boy. I... Well, I'd actually assumed this was your doing.” A brow arched; the angel sighed apologetically. “They're building this for a... a false idol. They think they'll be able to summon it here with enough praise and- and <em>sacrifices </em>and the like.”</p><p>“I don't really think I'd trust in a god who could just be summoned at will. Even angels can't be.”</p><p>A gasp, as if horrified by the very idea. “Of course not! But, oh, Crawly, it's just awful. Building monuments to false idols... I've tried to stem it, but...”</p><p>The following conversation was lost to time but for, “Before you go, I just- Well. Can demons be summoned?” </p><p>Scoff. “No. Can you imagine?” </p><p>“I suppose not.”</p><p>A week passed, maybe less, maybe more, and he'd been proven very wrong. And it had, in the way of Crowley’s luck sometimes, been his own fucking fault. He'd put the statue and its intentions in his report, subtly taking credit for encouraging the worship of false idols. He'd been more worried about Aziraphale, really. Monotheism had been very difficult to come by for a long while. He'd actually been trying to help put all the polytheism by the wayside or at least convince people to believe these false things were the one true God’s angels. It wasn't working, but he'd been trying to be careful about the way he went about things. Hadn't wanted Aziraphale to <em>notice</em> he was helping. The Arrangement had been centuries away, but that had hardly ever stopped Crowley from lending a hand when needed before they’d hammered out details.</p><p>In any case, he'd been called down to Hell to find that Satan himself was <em>excited </em>about the idea of summoning. Not of himself, obviously, but his followers? Oh-ho, what fun. </p><p>Fuck Satan. </p><p>Fuck Hell. </p><p><em>Fuck</em> being summoned. </p><p>It had taken time, of course. Ten million demon signatures to gather and double check and, for once, Crowley wasn't the only one uncertain about the party line. Until Satan had bellowed through all the nine circles of Hell that if one's name wasn't in the scrolls by week's end, one would cease to exist entirely. It was also explained, slightly less violently, that these summonings were to be used to gather more souls. Suddenly, Crowley was alone in his opinions again. </p><p>But what was one or two souls at a time when Crowley’s particular brand of mischief affected hundreds? Annoyance went such a long way and usually took such little effort. He knew firsthand that there was <em>danger</em> in being summoned. When the scrolls and, later, the books were placed in the hands of humans who believed they were serving the Lord, things could and did go very bad, very fast. Holy humans could make holy water. </p><p>Besides, demons weren't bright. Not as bright as humans, anyway. Clever things wrote down encounters, consistencies and inconsistencies alike tracked well enough to be pinned to specific demons. More demon names were known than angel ones, a fact easily attributed to the fact that angels didn't visit but once in a while - besides one particular one who was clever enough to keep his name out of everything but one particular misprinted Bible - and demons popped up as they pleased. It didn't <em>have</em> to be about summoning, something that had happened so much it was now part of their popular culture. </p><p>And, despite being told that it was impossible before it ever was, Aziraphale knew it was in the modern culture. He had an occult section (meaning, of course, that he had several books on the subject scattered throughout his bookshop) and humans did occasionally wander into that old, musty place and assume the old-fashioned owner with his beastly customer service was a witch. Crowley had walked in, once, to a teenager whispering questions about books on summoning. </p><p>Then he'd curiously and cautiously slithered along the shelves when Aziraphale had taken the girl - too young to be hurting enough to ask those questions - to a book that Crowley knew was utter bollocks (barring one dangerous paragraph; even fiction could have a grain of truth). He'd talked to her, wrapped her in angelic Grace and honest smiles, and had sent her away with good advice, a blessing, and no book. Crowley had dropped down, still limbless and scale-covered, and hissed a readily agreed upon lunch offer. </p><p>The actual books, the actual <em>facts</em> of summoning, were encased in Crowley’s safe. It hadn't always been the only copy, but it was the oldest. The first of its kind, ten million names, ten million symbols, and too many rules. Rules curated by demonic influence as well as human experience, a dangerous combination and one Crowley really hated thinking about. There hadn't been a choice. </p><p>His original influence had only led to three rules:</p><p>Summoning a demon required a deal (it didn't, but this had been in place since the beginning). Summoning a demon required a virgin's blood (it didn't, any blood would do, but lust was an easy sin). Summoning a demon required a symbol on the ground and a spell (it did, though “spell” was loosely used - they couldn't all be wrong). </p><p>Humans had gone on to add their own. Salt circles, for example, to keep demons trapped. That worked, yes, but the dangerous humans knew to include some iron. Sitting in a salt circle was annoying, but tolerable. They could still perform miracles, so breaking it usually only took some rattling of the ground or the retrieval of a plank or some such. Crowley had used a broom once and scared the daylights out of the would-be cultists who'd interrupted his day. Sitting in a salt <em>and</em> iron circle, however, <em>hurt</em>. Crowley knew that very well. </p><p>Of the eighteen uncomfortable times Crowley had been summoned, only the one in 1989 had been dangerous, and he hadn't been summoned since. He was in a good spot in the book. Not the beginning, middle, or end but somewhere in-between. Being one in ten million, particularly when dealing with humans lazy or desperate enough to try summoning a demon, it was a good place to be. </p><p>And, thankfully, he was still listed as Crawly. No one wanted to summon someone named <em>Crawly</em> and a few who had were disappointed to find him looking quite thoroughly human. Crowley had pettily given them Hastur’s name. Punishment for everyone, and he could go on his merry way. The ones he'd <em>helped</em> were his business and the ones who'd pissed him off were in his reports. He was a demon, after all, and not every human life was worth saving.</p><p>He'd done what he could about the book, though, about this list of signatures and requirements. Half-written by demons and half by humans interested in the occult. Humans trying to save their own souls, but still determined to deal with the denisons of Hell. </p><p>If he was going to live with Aziraphale (a thought still so wondrously new and blindingly brilliant, whatever his tucked away fears), he'd have to take this book. Still settled in his safe, he opened it to find his own name. He frowned at the serpentine pattern of his signature, his spot still amidst all of these other demons he’d renounced when he and Aziraphale had promised to stand with humanity instead. But his name was still there. If he was going to live with Aziraphale, there was a chance he could be summoned again. He hadn't yet figured out how to eradicate the book from the internet. Every time he tried, someone in a discreet forum found a copy on an old hard drive. So there it was again. It was far worse than the physical copies, passed around in the dark with whispered warnings. </p><p>The internet passed the pages off with an “lol, go for it.” And people did. They always would. Even after cutting himself off from Hell, he hadn’t shut off that link to his own name and demonhood. Two thousand years of being Crowley, several hundred of being Anthony Crowley, and a few decades of being Anthony J. Crowley, it was still Crawly they summoned and still him who was whisked away. No, even free and separate from Hell there wasn’t freedom or separation for him. Could he be blamed for not wanting to bring that up?</p><p>Sighing, he closed the ancient book with a firmness that would've made his angel wince, and closed the safe again. He'd tell him. Absolutely. Of course. Warn him about this embarrassing, miserable, potentially life-threatening, wholly demonic thing. He just wouldn't take the book just yet. Heaven still knew the bookshop existed, after all, and just the slimmest chance of bringing the book round any other angel was...</p><p>It wasn't worth thinking about. Not only were any Heavenly agents highly unlikely to stop by the bookshop now, they probably wouldn't summon <em>him</em> regardless. Not after Michael had seen “him” taking a dip in a holy water bath. So it was fine. Just had humanity to worry about. The thing he'd kinda-sorta promised to protect with Aziraphale. Wouldn't being destroyed by the thing he wanted to keep safe be a great irony? Fucking fantastic. A complete laugh riot. </p><p>The stress of it kept his shoulders tight all through the drive to the bookshop, short as it was, and right through the door. He almost tripped over a stack of books that had most definitely <em>not</em> been there the day before. “Angel?” he called, straightening the wobbling stack and too curious to be annoyed. “Moved onto killing potential customers, have you? I'm not gonna say it's a bad idea, but really?” </p><p>An “oh” was tutted at him from somewhere beyond the bookshelves. After a bit of shuffling about, a sizable stack of books with legs emerged from around the corner, carefully navigating the organized piles on the floor. It was only after Crowley plucked a precariously perched book off the top of the walking stack, did he reveal that it was, in fact, Aziraphale simply holding a stack of books.</p><p>“Only potential demons seeing as we’re closed.” He rolled his neck in the direction of the sign in the window. “Be careful with that. That’s my 1716 copy of the <em>Complete Kitchen and Cellar Dictionary</em>. A classic.”</p><p>“A useless classic.” But he held it with the same care he would any of Aziraphale’s books. So much tension slid away just seeing him, being wrapped in that bubble of warm familiarity. He’d talk to him. He could do it. “Dunno how we're s'posed to find a place together when you've got all this. We'll need a mansion.”</p><p>“What do you think it is that I’m doing, precisely?” Aziraphale huffed, eyeing two of the stacks at his feet before finding the one he wanted and adding his armful of books to it.</p><p>“Reorganizing? Same thing you always do when you think someone's figured out your nonexistent system.” Crowley placed the very outdated and highly specific dictionary atop the stack. </p><p>Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to refute him straightaway, then paused. “Well,” he started, and already Crowley was smirking. “I suppose in a way one would consider this reorganizing. But it’s not because of my highly intuitive system.” He tugged at his bowtie and lifted his chin. “I’m prioritizing which of my books will join us in the move and which ones will… well, go into storage of some sort. They can’t all be on display, after all. So I’m sorting through them.”</p><p>Downsizing, in a way. For him. Crowley’s smirk shifted into a too-fond smile, arms finding their way around Aziraphale’s waist to draw him in. He’d talk about the summoning book in a minute. “Maybe we pick a spot with an attic. Set you up with a proper-sized library.”</p><p>“Oh, it must be proper-sized at the very least,” he agreed, arms looping around Crowley’s shoulders in an embrace that became more and more natural each day. “But as long as I have most of my books accessible, it wouldn’t be the end of the world to keep one or two in boxes.” </p><p>“What about the new ones you inevitably get? We're going to end up with bookshelves in every single room at this rate.” It was impossible not to relax in Aziraphale’s hold, this thing he'd been quietly wishing for since... Well, since Eden. Back then, perhaps, it had been an innocent and misunderstood sort of want, but things had changed. Millennia had passed and he understood exactly why he wanted this angel in this and any other way. “I think built-ins for the bedroom wouldn't be awful.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Aziraphale’s smile brightened, aglow with a wealth of fondness. “Be careful, dearest, one might think that’s a bit too generous for a demon such as yourself,” he teased as he bobbed up for a kiss.</p><p>If he could be generous with one being, it was this one. He'd been patient for him, after all. Six thousand years of dancing around one another, figuring out codes, learning habits, lying to each other, themselves, everyone else - he'd been patient through it all. Right up until Earth had been decent enough not to end. He was still trying to be patient whilst fumbling and stumbling through this thing they called Their Side. </p><p>Their side, it turned out, had thus far finally allowed him to sink into Aziraphale’s plush strength and taste his lips, two things he was very happy to do at every opportunity. “You're right. Way too generous. You'll have to buy lunch, angel.” As if it mattered.</p><p>“I was thinking <em>sushi</em>. How does that sound?” </p><p>“Unsurprising, but you're buying anyway. We'll go wherever you want.” Grinning, adoring the glint in his eyes, Crowley gave him a squeeze and stepped back. “And as long as we get some sake with it, I'll live.”</p><p>“What do you take me for? Of course there’ll be sake.” Aziraphale made a show of tugging on his waistcoat, as if Crowley had all but disheveled him in the embrace. “I just need to finish going through my ‘Western European Cookbooks that don’t Include France or Spain from the 16th Through the 18th Centuries’ section and then I’ll be ready to go. There are only two more shelves.”</p><p>It could mean another hour or it could mean five minutes, depending. “For someone who's never cooked...” Crowley reached out to tug his bowtie lopsided just for the pleasure of watching him straighten himself out again. “And, no, your baking doesn’t count.” </p><p>“Well, obviously I’m going to learn.” Aziraphale batted at his hand when he reached for him again. “Once I sort out which cookbooks are crucial for everyday use, that is.” </p><p>Crowley caught his hand despite the swatting, kissing the back. “Probably not anything before stovetops were invented. Unless you want to drastically change the kitchen we end up with.”</p><p>“No, no. We can keep it relatively modern, my dear. It’s just that you never know what sort of recipes might be tucked away in these tomes. I know I still have a recipe for frumenty in here somewhere. In my 1381 scrolls for<em> The Forme of Cury</em>, perhaps. As I recall, it didn’t quite compare to what we had in the sixth century, in true fourteenth century fashion, yes, I’m aware of how you feel about it, dear boy, but I’m afraid I don’t have any cookbooks from that time period. Oh, and I haven’t yet tried making a linzer torte. I want to at least make an attempt with the original recipe.”</p><p>Crowley’s smile was more openly affectionate than he'd been allowed through nearly all of their time together. A few secret looks, as coded as their words, had slipped in now and again, but being more open with it was still new. Easiest when it was just them alone like this, but a little exciting when they were out and about. A little overwhelming, too, but it was all welcome. It was nice to feel some forward momentum, even though every step thus far had involved quite a bit of hesitation and side glances in silent wonderings of <em>Is this okay?</em></p><p>Not everything had been easy, but they had so much time spread before them now to get used to it all. To delve into new hobbies and a new home, without Heaven or Hell looming over them. Except for a book in his safe. He had to talk about the book, so opened his mouth and asked, “What sort of fruit would you use for the torte? Wondering how I might fill a back garden. Maybe a vegetable patch or something with fruits.”</p><p>Aziraphale beamed at him, that same affection in a not-so-secret look reflected back at him. “Is that so? Oh, I think that would be lovely,” he hummed, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled through the shelves to finish up the section. “I believe the recipe traditionally calls for raspberry preserves and nuts.”</p><p>“I think those grow on bushes. Could be nice, tucked along a fence.” With flower bushes. Crowley followed him, leaning against an empty shelf with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “Would an apple tree be too on the nose?” </p><p>“Of course <em>you’d</em> want an apple tree.” Aziraphale flicked his gaze over at him in fond exasperation. “Though it would be nice to bake an apple pie. Or tart. Or strudel. Oh! What about a pear tree?”</p><p>Of course he’d want a pear tree, Crowley very generously not parroting that back at him. “Could do. And a cherry tree. They flower nicely.” His lips quirked easily. “We’ll need a good-sized garden, then. We should start a list - attic, big garden, built-ins. What else would you like, angel?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t believe there’s really anything else I’d need,” Aziraphale mused as he examined several titles before him, but simply moved them to another shelf to deal with later. “I suppose an eat-in kitchen would be preferred, we don’t exactly have a need for a formal dining room. Do they still put those in houses?”</p><p>“No idea. All I hear on telly are open floor plans and taking out walls.” Reality television may have been his doing, but that didn't make him immune to it. And <em>maybe</em> house hunting and decorating shows had been in his queue on nights not spent with Aziraphale as of late. They'd been giving him ideas and his own list of wants seemed to grow all the time. He just didn't want to voice any of it. If Aziraphale disagreed, he might back out. He'd backed out of so much over the millennia, after all. “A little spot in the kitchen wouldn't be bad.”</p><p>“And our house will most certainly have <em>walls</em>, Crowley. I don’t care if that’s the newest thing,” Aziraphale scoffed.</p><p>“See, now you're being no fun at all.” Crowley picked up a book at random, but was only deceptively casual with it. He'd never damage one of Aziraphale’s books. “You'd be able to see more of these everywhere if we had an open concept thing.”</p><p>“So would anyone who walked past our house,” he pointed out. “And what on Earth would we affix a roof to? Posts?”</p><p>Laughing, Crowley stepped closer and just had to kiss his ridiculous mouth. An open concept downstairs was one of his wants for their new home, but he treated the idea flippantly. It didn't matter, not at all. He was too nervous to allow it. “Outside walls exist, yes. It's inside where they tear them all down. Have you seen <em>any</em> houses around without - mng - exterior walls? And don't give me that look; I know that look. I mean <em>recently</em>.” </p><p>“Well, I don’t keep up with how they’re building houses today.” Aziraphale nudged him away with a huff. “All I know is that I would like a traditional cottage. Something simple. Walls included. Otherwise where will you nap when you tire of the bed?”</p><p>He grinned, ignored the tiny ache as he ignored so many, and didn’t explain that the open concept idea was a downstairs thing more than an upstairs one. “Ceiling.”</p><p>Aziraphale gave him a look, then proceeded to grab two more books. “You wily old serpent. Are you honestly telling me you want one of these wall-less houses then, or are you simply advocating for the Devil again?”</p><p>“Ngk.” He waved a hand as if he could bat away direct questions. He wanted to. He wanted it gone. His wants were too much and always had been. He'd been going too fast for his angel for millennia, been told as much, and they'd never talked about it again. They kissed now, did more than kiss when the snogging turned heated and Aziraphale took him upstairs. He loved that. He loved putting hands, lips, tongue everywhere he could, listening and watching for every bit of pleasure he could wring out of his angel before he let any of it be reciprocated. He was used to hiding, to burying things. The depths of his love and devotion to Aziraphale were so tightly locked down, even he didn't know how deep the well was. </p><p>Those weren't words they'd shared, and that was fine. It was fine. It was enough that Aziraphale wanted to be around him. Enough that he didn't look around guiltily when they were together. Enough that Crowley got his smiles freely. Enough that the games they'd been playing for so long had been put away in favour of new ones. New games, new rules, and they were all being laid out by Aziraphale. Crowley was a skilled liar and a natural tempter, after all, and he loved in ways no demon was supposed to love.</p><p>But when and what <em>Crowley</em> wanted? A garden would be enough. The only thing he actively cared about in his flat were his plants anyway, and he'd take the pots outside if Aziraphale asked him to. “Playing Devil’s advocate and no. M’just trying to figure out what you want. Between us, you're the only one who's figured out how to make a home.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t say that’s true. You’ve had lovely homes in the past. And your current flat is…” Aziraphale hesitated, expression pinched as he potentially sought the words that would least offend him. “Well, it’s done to your current taste, isn’t it? Just because it’s not how I would decorate doesn’t make it less of a home.” </p><p>Crowley had stayed in inns in the past. He'd spent time in sporadic houses left behind by humans. In the fourteenth century, when he'd finally given up on it, he'd miracled himself a cottage in the depths of a forest just so he could sleep the decades away in peace. None of them had ever been a <em>home</em>. They were just spots he ended up in for a few years at a time. Up to and including the flat in Mayfair. </p><p>“It's just a storage space. S'got some souvenirs and a bed. It's not gonna be any problem for me to leave it. I'd never ask you to leave here if I could...” If he could sleep there. He couldn't relax enough most of the time and when he did manage it, he normally woke up choking on fear and phantom smoke. He'd found he could settle so long as his angel was close enough to touch, but Aziraphale didn't sleep and Crowley was wary - terrified - of overwhelming him with his own needs. Their side was still new, these steps into this new space too hard-won, for him to want to risk that. </p><p>Ultimately, Crowley still didn't know where he was supposed to be in this relationship. Too wary that he wanted, needed, loved too much - six thousand years had built into something so strong and big, it would surely terrify Aziraphale if he gave him more than a glimpse. He knew how to clamp down on his feelings, how to keep from sharing everything he felt. It was required in Hell - to survive one hid fears and insecurities if one wanted to survive into the next day. On Earth, one hid love and devotion to keep the angel one loved and was devoted to safe. They’d kept each other safe. But... Things were different, and sometimes Crowley struggled with the shift. He’d known for so long where his feet were in regards to Aziraphale, had held his hand outstretched longer than London had been a city or England a country. He’d learned in 1967 that it wasn’t all in vain, a tartan thermos in hand and that <em>“You go too fast for me”</em> promising that Aziraphale would be with him one day, but where exactly were they now? </p><p>Where would they be if Crowley reminded him that, even on their own side, they were very different beings?</p><p>Crowley shook his head, tamping it down, down, down. They’d manage somehow. They’d always managed. “Point is, I know you hate my flat. I don't <em>care</em> about my flat. I'll be happy with whatever you want.”</p><p>“I don’t <em>hate</em> your flat,” Aziraphale argued, handing Crowley three books to hold while he collected more. “It is a bit… monochromatic, but your plants are lovely and you have such nice windows. It’s certainly not the worst place either of us have lived.” With another shelf cleared, Aziraphale let his fingers brush against the woodgrain of the dusty shelf, then adjusted his grip on his books and nodded at Crowley to move along so they could get back to the stacks at the front. “And as I recall, you didn’t ask me to leave here. It was a joint decision, just as any home we select shall be. I’m not going to force you to live somewhere you don’t have a say in, Crowley.”</p><p>“I <em>know </em>that. I just want to make sure you're happy, so you don't regret-” He cut that off. Mouth shut, thought process derailing. He hadn't meant to let even a hint of that fear out, blaming the thoughts of summoning and the way it loomed like a threat. It had distracted him, and now Aziraphale was <em>looking </em>at him and- “Mngh. That'sss- I didn't mean... Ngk.”</p><p>The silence between them was laden with things still unspoken, the path of six thousand years that led them to this moment still full of missteps and wrong turns that they couldn’t forget, even as they both moved forward. “What did you mean then?” Aziraphale asked, mindful of the way his tone turned, not demanding or puffed up and offended, but a bit too bright and his fingers clutched his books instead of themselves.</p><p>Crowley had to put the three he'd been given down, wondering how to best escape. A few years earlier, before the world hadn't ended, it would've been easy. Leaving had always been the best option. Now... Now it was probably the worst. That didn't make staying easy. “It doesn't matter. I had a long night. Buncha nonsense.”</p><p>Aziraphale hesitated, wavering between accepting the lie and… talking. “It’s alright, Crowley. You can…” He took a deep breath he didn’t really need and shifted his grip, shoulders back. “You can tell me. I understand that I haven’t made the best case for myself over the years. That I’ve hurt you. That’s not nonsense. We should discuss it, if you have questions about my commitment to our side. That’s what people do, isn’t it? When they make big decisions like this?”</p><p>“I don't have questions about your commitment.” Which was true. True enough. He knew Aziraphale wanted this, wanted to be with him. No one would've willingly walked into Hell for him without commitment. He just had questions about going backwards or standing still, answers he didn't think Aziraphale had with this being new for them. Making their own rules was so much harder than navigating around someone else's. “It... It's me and my problems. As stupidly cliché as that sounds.”</p><p>“Well, maybe I can help. There must be something I can do to reassure you.”</p><p>“Angel... It's demon rubbish. Nothing you can really do about it.” He'd been trying to fix it for millennia and didn't think he ever would. And it's all he wanted to talk about, think about. None of the things that had hurt, none of the quiet festerings of six thousand years. </p><p>“There must be if you don’t trust that I won’t regret leaving the bookshop,” he huffed. “Wouldn’t you be concerned if I said I thought you might regret moving house with me? I can’t imagine that would sit well with you.”</p><p>Crowley scowled. It wasn't the same thing. Not when the real issue was whether or not Aziraphale would come to regret picking <em>him</em>. A demon. A foul fiend and a troublemaker - the things that hadn't and wouldn't change. Inherently evil. Isn't that what he was? Wouldn't Aziraphale see that one day? Crowley clawed that fear back down once again, smothered it. He shouldn’t have looked at the book. He shouldn’t have reminded himself that he was still attached to Hell in one terrible way. “I'd probably just call you an idiot.”</p><p>“Crowley!” He was glaring at him now. “That’s not very sporting. Be reasonable.”</p><p>“That <em>is </em>reasonable. I haven't done a single thing to make you think I don't want to be with you.” He wouldn't even go to the flat if he wasn't used to sleeping. Or, to be honest with himself, too afraid to overwhelm Aziraphale. “You've <em>known</em> that for-” He shook his head, letting out a string of sounds that almost sounded like words. “So I'd call you an idiot and then, y'know, that'd be that.”</p><p>“Oh, <em>of course</em> you’d think that.” Aziraphale turned his back on him and marched over to his stacks of books to continue organizing. “And there, you see? You are implying it’s something I’ve done. Well, I’m sorry if I was too preoccupied with our mutual safety to go gallivanting about with you before now, but that was the way it had to be. If <em>anything</em> had happened to you because of our association-” he cut himself off, letting one of the heavier books <em>thunk</em> against another. “I did what I could, when I could. Though I’m not going to call you an idiot for being upset by that.”</p><p>“How big of you,” he muttered, tempted to give up on this conversation and storm out after all. Instead, he shucked off his blazer and tossed it onto a shelf. They could be mad and not run away from each other. Especially since Crowley didn't think the feelings burning in his chest had anything to do with anger. Scared and hurt unfortunately sounded more accurate. The worst things to feel in Hell, he reminded himself, were safe things to feel with Aziraphale. They’d manage. “I <em>know</em> the things that would’ve happened to us if either side knew we’d become friends. I know what you were doing.” But did he believe Aziraphale had done everything he could when he could? </p><p>No. No, he didn't, but he thought Aziraphale believed that. His angel, overthinking as he always did, overcautious as he'd always been, loyal to a place that was simply not as good as their halos would lead one to believe - yes, Aziraphale believed he'd done all he could. But Crowley had already forgiven so many of the slights - hundreds of “We don't know each other” or “We're not friends” or any of the other little, distancing lies in public. Crowley had never told the lies himself, but he’d never contradicted him. He’d never tried. He knew the rules to keep them safe.</p><p>But who could've possibly been listening to them the one and only time he'd <em>asked</em> for words? Pulled taut by an Earth/Hell combo of a violent, summoning-based suffering and snapped by a silence they hadn't talked about. One of the many, many things they hadn't talked about. And if Crowley told him about summoning, he might accidentally tell him about that particular hurt from 1989. Who knew what would follow?</p><p>
  <em>Would you miss me? Are you going to regret me? Do I still move too fast for you? Do I want, need, love too much? I'm still a demon - will it bother you? Will it bother you that it doesn't bother me? </em>
</p><p>Questions piled over his tongue, stuck to the roof of his mouth. Questions had pulled him down once and he'd handled that. He didn't know if he could handle losing Aziraphale to his own wonderings. He'd felt that loss once already. He'd been in this very building screaming for him, at him, about him. Flames that hadn't felt unholy, but still so wrong. The only home one of them had ever made reduced to ash. </p><p>The thought, the memory of what lived in his nightmares, sapped his energy, drained the fight right out of him. Too much could include too scared, couldn't it? This tightrope was maddening and, too often, Crowley was starting to feel it becoming more like a noose. His own terror was going to hang him one day if he didn’t get this under control, if he couldn’t reach the other side of this somehow. Arguing wasn't going to help. They had to <em>talk</em>. Not about the hurt yet, no, but the fucking book. The threat on the proverbial table. One step at a time. </p><p>“Would you... Can you stop being offended for a minute? I'd rather not get into a row with you when my head's not on straight.”</p><p>“I’d rather not either,” he replied, still with his holier-than-thou sort of tone as he moved his books between the various piles, his mind clearly elsewhere as he moved one of them twice. “I don’t enjoy being cross with you, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah, well...” Sometimes he did. They both did. Teasing and bickering were as much a part of them as... As hiding. Only one of those things really needed to change. “I do need to talk to you about those demon things,” he admitted quietly, watching him, sighing over his own stupid mistake at even starting this conversation or of not starting it sooner, “and it's serious. You know how much I hate that.”</p><p>Aziraphale turned to him suddenly, brow creased with concern. “How serious? Has someone contacted you? Come after you?”</p><p>“None of that, but it's...” Crowley slipped off his sunglasses, folding them and tapping them against his palm. The concern was a boost, a reminder that they were more than enemies. More than fraternising. They could manage this.</p><p>But it occurred to him, looking into concerned stormcloud eyes, that Hell wouldn't have to come after him, would they? All demons would have to do was give his name to a human with a vendetta and he'd be destroyed. Hell would have what they wanted, and no one would be there to keep Aziraphale safe. He had to talk about it and they had to figure out some way to minimize the danger. 1989 had been unusual for <em>him</em>, but other demons had met Holy Water in that nearly-global Satanic panic. He'd gotten lucky, but would he again? </p><p>He'd been quiet too long, though, Aziraphale’s frustration plucking right alongside his concern. Crowley opened his mouth to say <em>something</em> and went numb so suddenly his knees buckled. His sunglasses slipped from limp fingers, wide eyes snapping to Aziraphale in a panic, but was gone before he could say a word. </p><p>Like in 1989, the pain was immediate and he had not been ready. <em>Fuck</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>So where did our demon get whisked off to? You won't have to wait long to find out. We're going to be updating this one every three days, so be on the lookout! It's not our <s>my</s> normal amount of angst, but here we are!</p>
<p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/><s>Keep telling yourself that, lol.</s> We'll be back on Friday with Aziraphale's perspective! Thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A demon goes missing. An angel attempts to sort through it all. Prayer can be a powerful thing.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: mentions of satanic ritual abuse (no details provided, just referred to as a topic in a general sense as it applied to the satanic panic in the 80s and 90s), self-harm (temporary and fixed quickly) </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>1990</strong>
  </p>
  <p>
    <strong>FBI Academy</strong>
  </p>
</div><p>An angel strolled through the doors of the FBI Academy building in Stafford, VA. He had an appointment, though even if he hadn’t, a few well-placed miracles would ensure him safe passage into the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It had been quite some time since he had cause to travel to the States, but in the past year, he’d determined that it was quite the necessary mission.</p><p>Not a Heaven-sanctioned one, mind, but Aziraphale had his story prepared in case they asked.</p><p>A moral panic had arisen in the United States over the past few years. He’d done a bit of poking about after Crowley called him in what seemed to be a panic of his own in the autumn of 1989. Satanism and claims of cult activity and ritualistic abuse were on the rise, supposedly, and the uproar had ballooned to the point where its echo crossed oceans, ripples spreading to the rest of the Western world. However, it was more a self-fulfilling prophecy, Aziraphale found, rather than an increase in any actual demonic activity from Hell’s agents. Though, if Heaven had asked, well, an investigation into something involving the other side couldn’t be remiss.</p><p>It wasn’t so different from his explanation as to why he had such a collection of occult books in his shop. If he was expected to thwart Crowley, then wasn’t it crucial that he look into all the ways humans were being tempted to side with the Devil? Or to find out what they planned to do to protect themselves from the forces of evil? </p><p>Of course, that wasn’t actually why he had copies of <em>Satanism and Witchcraft: The Classic Study of Medieval Superstition </em>or <em>The Black Arts: A Concise History of Witchcraft, Demonology, Astrology, and Other Mystical Practices</em> or even <em>Ritual Magic: An Occult Primer</em>, although that ended up being more for his own personal use as he pursued his amateur interest in stage magic. It wasn’t even his love of the written word in all forms that inspired him to cultivate an expansive collection on the subject matter. He simply needed to… well… <em>know</em>.</p><p>Humanity was just so clever and inventive when it came to making sense of the world. Also incredibly dangerous when the wrong hands were dealt the right information. Though Aziraphale was loath to admit that initially he didn’t think anything wrong whatsoever in some humans having the power to create holy water or exorcise demons. In fact, he’d been elated at first. After all, those were very Good things to do; to protect themselves, to do God’s work. Aziraphale was rather proud of them for figuring it all out.</p><p>He didn’t really think about how it related to Crowley for several decades. That humanity having the ability to destroy demons meant having the ability to destroy <em>Crowley</em>. As his demonic counterpart on Earth, that placed him in the potential line of fire far more than any other demon - the ones that actually meant humans harm and likely deserved a good smiting if the stories Crowley told about Hell were to be believed. Though he could be a bit dramatic, so sometimes it was best to take such information with a grain of salt.</p><p>Well, perhaps not salt, if most of the texts were to be believed. Though he’d seen Crowley sigh and eat chips once or twice and those certainly had salt on them. He supposed it was fine enough for demons providing it wasn’t in a circle - not that he’d tested that - or a line across one’s doors or windows - he had tested that, but then felt extraordinarily guilty at the thought of Crowley thinking he was actively trying to keep him out at worst or extraordinarily embarrassed at the thought of him laughing at him at best, so he’d cleared it away without really knowing if it worked. It popped up in enough of his reading to convince him that it had some degree of potency. </p><p>While his fellow angels would have been told it was for ‘research on new thwarting techniques,’ Aziraphale read up on all sorts of occultisms and satanisms and exorcisms to stay in the loop and redirect when needed. Like pushing the agenda that demons were less likely to bother you if you had a positive outlook on life - which was true, if only because a positive person didn’t get as annoyed as easily and Crowley didn’t think that was very fun when fomenting dissent and discord. Crystals were also him, he’d seen Crowley handle obsidian, amethyst, and tourmaline with no ill-effects, but sometimes having talismans of sorts helped humans to feel better and made them less of a target. Bells, books, and candles were rather meaningless. Oh, and reading from the Bible was just as likely to get Crowley to bust out laughing or criticize just how dull it was than send him “back from whence he came.” It wasn’t lying, necessarily. After all, it wasn’t as if it was an exact science. There was always room for conjecture and humans were so curious, if something sounded even remotely reasonable, they’d direct their attention to it and consider it a possible solution.</p><p>That was his intent behind his trip to Virginia in 1990, to try and kerb what pandemonium - pun <em>not</em> intended - had arisen that presented as a threat to his… adversary. If things continued as they were, Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if Hell sent Crowley to the United States more frequently to “stoke” the outrage and fear. Crowley would go, of course, unless he called upon the Arrangement, but neither had formally invoked it since their spat in 1862. While he wouldn’t do anything to aggravate the situation as per his style, Aziraphale didn’t like the thought of him as more or less a sitting duck amidst overzealous fanaticism. </p><p>Gosh, there certainly were quite a few isms, weren’t there?</p><p>“Agent Fell!”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled brightly as he was greeted by the supervisory special agent serving as his contact for this particular mission. He was a rather sensible man, ten years shy of retirement, who by sheer happenstance ended up the lead agent in the Behavioral Science Unit that investigated satanic ritual-based attacks. As a respected voice in the agency, his documentation and research could be critical to swaying public opinion away from demons, so Aziraphale sought him out.</p><p>And if, by saying he’d worked with British Military Intelligence, he had them all under the impression that he was an agent himself, well… that wasn’t <em>his</em> fault. He wasn’t lying. He <em>had</em> worked with them in 1941, or at least, had been under the impression he’d worked with them, and really couldn’t be faulted for that either. It more or less amounted to the same thing.</p><p>“Hello, Special Agent Lanning.” Aziraphale hefted up - coincidentally - the same bag he’d carried with him to the church in 1941. Same bag, different books. “I’ve brought the books I’ve promised. A veritable collection on all things related to Satanism and the occult.” Minus some prized first editions, of course. As if he’d make that mistake again.</p><p>Though he had brought some scrolls.</p><p>“Fantastic. Bring ‘em back to my office.” He motioned for Aziraphale to follow him. “Have to say, your call came at the perfect time. Wasn’t expecting you back so soon. How’s London?”</p><p>“Oh, fine. Yes, just fine. I was able to tie up a few loose ends early, and it wasn’t as difficult to locate the books as I’d thought it might be.”</p><p>“Jet-lagged at all?” </p><p>“Oh, no. I don’t sleep.”</p><p>Agent Lanning laughed, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder before ushering him into his cramped office, stuffed to the brim with case files. “Certainly feels like it, huh! Well, let me know if you need any coffee.”</p><p>“No, thank you. I brought some of my favourite selections of tea with me this time.” Another mistake he wouldn’t be making again. </p><p>Though Aziraphale was spending most of his time in the States, he did pop back over every now and then in the event Crowley stopped by the shop, to bore him with the details of what he’d been up to as of late and to discourage the demon from getting it into his head that he should follow him and see what sort of mischief he could stir up. This time it had worked out that Crowley called the first night he was back, so they’d been able to meet up for lunch twice before Aziraphale felt it was safe to return, with books in tow. It was for the best not to risk… comparing notes for too long. Crowley was always full of questions, and Aziraphale was not always the greatest liar when faced with the glint of sunglasses and the hint of golden eyes behind them. </p><p>He just didn’t know how Crowley’s pride would take it if he knew what he was actually up to. The poor dear had sounded so flustered and out-of-sorts about it the year before, and rightly so if he truly had been face-to-face with his own destruction. So much so he’d asked the most ridiculous question Aziraphale had yet to hear him ask, and that said a lot, given Crowley asked many ridiculous questions on a regular basis. Such a silly demon.</p><p>However, Crowley had appeared a bit more distracted than usual. Hell was having quite the time with all of this Satanic Panic, apparently, and not in a good way - or, rather, a bad way? Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure how demons preferred to refer to things that worked in their benefit, it all seemed a bit convoluted from what Crowley told him.</p><p>Not that Crowley was able to tell him much as of late, constantly being dragged down for more than the occasional performance review. For some reason that Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure of, Hell seemed to be blaming Crowley for the whole affair with men of the cloth destroying demons with holy water left and right. Though demons didn’t particularly care for one another, this was still a Big Deal. </p><p>“Why do they think this is all your doing?” Aziraphale had asked him when they did manage to meet for cake at their first alternative rendezvous point, the British Museum cafe. “Don’t they realise it would put you at risk as well if you were encouraging people to take holy water to demons?”</p><p>“Mnng...” He shook his head, the sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the pinch in his expression. “Took credit for the stupid Satanic Bible - which is <em>all</em> bollocks - in 1969 and it’s, y’know, spiralled into all this. I’ve been telling those idiots not to come to Earth for millennia, but that’s worked as well as expected. Tell rebels <em>no</em> and all of a sudden it’s my fault they walk into holy water.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Aziraphale polished off the last bite of his devil's food cake and dabbed the crumbs from his lips. “Seems to me demons underestimate humanity’s wherewithal,” he said, because he was expected to. He likely should have added in an incredulous tone that he knew this was all Crowley’s demonic work, but he was a bit tired of that step in their dance, so didn’t mind skipping it. From the way Crowley didn’t say anything when he reached across the table to start nibbling at his angel food cake, Aziraphale believed he didn’t mind either. “You’ve said before that your higher ups- or er… lower downs? Your side, rather, don’t send rude notes… They’re not- you’re not in <em>terrible</em> trouble, are you?”</p><p>It took him too long to answer, which was really an answer in and of itself. “It’s spreading, angel, and they keep yanking me down before I can make a dent anywhere. If it doesn’t go away soon...” His shoulders moved restlessly. “My replacement probably won’t share their cake with you.”</p><p>Aziraphale paused with the next forkful of angel food cake halfway to his lips, then slowly lowered it to his plate, pale pink crumbs mingling with the dark chocolate. Cake was the very least of his worries. He wanted to scold him, to hold his gaze through the dark lenses he failed to hide behind and make certain the demon knew that he could never give him a single thing or favour again for the rest of eternity; it wouldn’t change how much Aziraphale valued him, how much he wanted him in this world alongside him. Crowley was worth so much more than the sum of his actions.</p><p>Aziraphale wanted to tell Crowley that the very worst thing he could imagine was not Falling, but having to carry on without him. And that it was because he loved him so desperately that he wanted him near. Even if they couldn’t be together, they could still have this. Whatever it was their Arrangement had metamorphosed into… it was better than not having him at all.</p><p>But he couldn’t tell him that. Not any one of those things. As Crowley had said before, walls had ears, and the second Aziraphale spoke those words into existence, there’d be no stopping what would come next. </p><p>“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” he said instead, to keep them safe, then finally took that next bite so he wouldn’t say anything else.</p><p>But just because he couldn’t <em>say</em> anything didn’t mean that he couldn’t still <em>do</em> something. Anything to balance out the risk Crowley faced on a day to day basis between Hell and humanity and Heaven.</p><p>“I’ve brought the most reputable sources I could find, specifically on the rituals of the occult and the history and origins of Satanism,” Aziraphale told Agent Lanning as he carefully opened his bag. “Provided that it was in good enough condition to travel.”</p><p>The American agent was nodding as he surveyed the titles once they were arranged on his desk. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a collection. Are these scrolls?”</p><p>“Yes, dating back to the beginning of the second century, if I’m not mistaken. I’m not entirely certain if they’ll provide much relevance to the case we’re making, but thought it couldn’t hurt to bring them.”</p><p>“Well, we’re sure lucky there’s a bookshop in your family that specializes in these kinds of things.” Agent Lanning shook his head in disbelief, then reached out to touch one of the covers of an older book, before something told him he should think better of that decision and reached for a newer, less rare book. </p><p>Aziraphale would have to let him read the more fragile ones at some point, but he was working up to it. Agent Lanning wanted to immerse himself in the history of the subject, after all, and Aziraphale was drawn to that passion. His goal was to study Satanism so he could feel qualified to accurately discuss the subject matter as it applied to satanic ritual attacks and have a degree of credibility when claiming that the influx in these SRAs was unfounded. Despite the glaring lack of corroborating evidence, many people in his field of study still believed demons and their wicked followers were behind it all, demanding sacrifices and virginity, and that crazed cultists were on the loose and snatching up children left and right. But between the two of them, neither of them had found anything in their case studies that would suggest it was actually the Devil’s work.</p><p>It certainly didn’t help when things like murder and assault joined vegetarianism, yoga, and rock music as what was considered the “obvious signs of a Satanist.” Even though Aziraphale wasn’t at all a fan of rock music and believed it to be more of Crowley’s preference, he’d never think he could possibly claim that it was the Devil’s music. No, rock and bebop and such things were all very much human creations.</p><p>While Agent Lanning skimmed the book he’d been allowed to look at, Aziraphale quietly snapped behind his back, flooding the crowded office with angelic influence and inspiration. Encouragement. Agent Lanning was compiling the information to compose a monograph on SRAs, and with the right information at his fingertips, Aziraphale believed it would be a game changer, something to entice the professionals and experts to look to holding actual criminals accountable, saving innocents, and putting the panic to bed. While demonic activity did need to be… monitored, to say the least, this hyperfixation was obscuring true violence and sin from the public eye. Perpetrators of abuse walking free, without fear of punishment, because all eyes were on their scapegoat. Demons and cults and Crowley. </p><p>Aziraphale had the utmost faith in the man that if anyone could stop the spread of misinformation, it was this special agent. And once it stopped, the angel would be able to breathe a bit easier once more. So to speak, since he didn’t actually need to breathe at all, and it would only be as easy as it had been since 1967. After all, there was still one very dangerous threat to Crowley’s existence within easy reach of him, placed there by his own doing.</p><p>Though humans with their exorcisms and their rituals certainly posed a danger to a demon, in the end nothing was more dangerous for Crowley than having ties to an angel.</p><p>Aziraphale would do whatever he could to minimize any other risks to him. It wouldn’t erase the cost of their friendship - more than friendship - that could be collected at any day, but it was something he could do for him. A way he could protect him.</p><p>It didn’t contradict any direct order from Heaven, after all. Yes, he was meant to thwart Crowley’s wiles, but he was also the principality of Earth and guardian of all living things that walked upon it. So long as Crowley was on this Earth, Aziraphale would protect him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <strong>Present Day</strong>
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  <p>
    <strong>Soho</strong>
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</div><p>“Crowley?”</p><p>Silence drifted through the bookshop like dust motes in the sunbeams spilling through the skylight. Where a demon had once stood – collapsed, he’d been falling to the floor – there remained only his sunglasses and the faintest trace of smoke and sulphur. Aziraphale’s gaze swept over the stacks of books, the shelves, the spiral staircase, but there was only the strange, stirring feeling that he was now very much alone.</p><p>This was rather… unprecedented. </p><p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale called out again, ignoring the nervous stutter of his corporation’s pulse as he bent down to pick up the sunglasses, lest he forget they were amongst the books and accidentally crush them beneath his heel. Fidgety fingers toyed with the temples, opening and closing the hinge while he waited and listened for as long as he had the patience for it.</p><p>Which wasn’t very long. </p><p>“Crowley!” With a huff, Aziraphale held his head high as he strode towards the backroom. “Come now, Crowley, I hardly think this is the time for practical jokes.” The backroom was empty, no demon lounging on the sofa, golden eyes fondly amused as he ‘got him,’ so to speak. “You’re being very unreasonable, my dear.”</p><p>As much as he didn’t want to be, he was still a bit cross, the residual static from their disagreement still sizzling in the air beneath that smokey sulphur. Obviously this was a trick. A way to wriggle his way out of having to communicate his feelings like a human child. Yes, that had to be it. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and pocketed the sunglasses with a trembling hand.</p><p>“What have you done? Turned yourself invisible?” He wasn’t sure if they could do that, so he skimmed the entirety of the bookshop once, then had a second go-around when the first yielded nothing. “No, a snake is more likely, isn’t it? Very clever, Crowley. Taking advantage of my shop’s utter disarray. You know, you really should have known better than to provoke me when everything’s so out of sorts.”</p><p>Crouched down, he carefully moved the stacks of books that were closest to where the demon had been standing. Where that scent was strongest, but even that was fading now, along with any lingering trace of the demon, and the panicked voice in his head silently shouted at him. Aziraphale watched with a keen eye for any sign of movement, a slither here or there to sneak away. Crowley could be very sneaky when he wanted to be. Especially when he used walls and ceilings to his advantage. Aziraphale’s gaze lifted momentarily to check, despite knowing he wouldn’t be up there.</p><p>No, if one thing consistently gave Crowley away, it was his ever-attentive stare, honed in on him century after century. Aziraphale could always feel when Crowley was watching him. Even when he couldn’t see him - discorporated without a body, he could feel that grounding attention keeping him tethered - and he most certainly couldn’t see him now.</p><p>He couldn’t feel him at all.</p><p>“Did he leave?” Aziraphale frowned, pulse still in a tizzy as he knelt amongst his books for a moment, puzzling over the prospect. </p><p>While they could use miracles to teleport on occasion, it wasn’t something they made a habit of doing unless a situation really called for it - like a dramatic entrance. Dramatic exits on the other hand, while <em>very</em> much Crowley’s style, were usually done in a way that drew as much attention to his hips as possible as he sauntered and shouted his way out the door. Not… falling to the floor and vanishing.</p><p>No, Crowley didn’t do that.</p><p>But he must have, in this case. Maybe now that they were on their side and he knew of Aziraphale’s feelings - had known them <em>quite</em> intimately, in fact - he didn’t see a point to go off in the way he used to, with dramatic flare intended to make Aziraphale miss him through the cloud of anger. He never had to try very hard there.</p><p>He had a point to this thought. Right, perhaps Crowley had been so upset that he had teleported out of the shop. Without his blazer and without his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s palms began to tingle as he rubbed them over his thighs, warming uncomfortably from the repeated friction intended to self-soothe. He eyed the discarded blazer suspiciously. It was possible he’d leave both behind if he’d gone to the Bentley or his flat.</p><p>Rising from the floor, Aziraphale took a peek out the window. The Bentley was still parked out front, no one in the driver’s seat, or passenger’s. Crowley wouldn’t just <em>leave </em>the Bentley, would he? Not for a joke nor because he was upset. He liked to drive after one of his fits, if he wasn’t sleeping it off. Drive faster than his feelings could smother him.</p><p>With a frown, he hurried to his telephone. If he wasn’t driving, then he’d obviously gone back to the flat for a nap or to take it out on his poor plants. Aziraphale picked up the receiver, the line already ringing Crowley’s number because he expected it.</p><p>It rang. And rang. Then it clicked.</p><p>“<em>Hi-</em></p><p>“Crowley! Oh, my dear, I-”</p><p><em>“-this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.</em>”</p><p>BEEP.</p><p>Aziraphale sighed. He always liked to interrupt him on the telephone. Well, at least that meant he couldn’t be very angry then. Or upset or… whatever confusing feelings caused him to lash out for no reason. They’d been having such a lovely conversation, too. He was looking forward to house hunting with Crowley, discovering what sort of place spoke to the two of them. A home they could build together.</p><p>“Crowley,” he tried again. “There really was no reason for you to make such an exit. Granted, perhaps I did… how do you like to put it? Get my feathers ruffled? In any case, I was willing to listen to you at the end there, so I don’t see how you could start saying something about demons, only to vanish on me without any explanation whatsoever! I thought we were past this sort of thing. Well, I suppose some habits are difficult to break. We do fall into old patterns at times when we’re feeling at our most vulnerable. And it’s alright to admit that, my dear,” he hurried to assure him, taking his silence as obvious offence. <em>Vulnerable? Me? Don’t be ridiculous.</em> “Believe me, it would hardly give me cause to see you any differently. Nothing could. But I understand that it's not always easy to open up about such things. Especially when I haven’t always been a receptive party, which cannot completely be excused by a concern for your safety. Which, I am quite concerned about now, actually, so if you wouldn’t mind coming back to tell me what was it that had you so out of sorts, dearest, I promise I’ll listen and not say a single word until-”</p><p>There was another click and then the phone made a series of aggravating sounds in his ear. Wincing at the piercing tone, Aziraphale held the receiver away. Oh, so he was being like that again, was he? With the odd beeping noises and refusing to speak to him unless it was on his other telephone line. Tamping down the worry rising in the back of his throat, Aziraphale hung up, then dialed for Crowley’s mobile telephone. He always answered that, even when the world had been ending and he’d claimed he was running off to the stars, he’d still answered. This was hardly a fraction of that, surely not worth all the fuss.</p><p><em>But something’s not right</em>, he couldn’t help thinking, startling when music started playing from somewhere in the shop. From where Crowley’s blazer was still draped. Aziraphale lowered the receiver, but didn’t hang up, following the song until he fished out the sleek, black cell phone from one of the pockets. His own name was on the screen and the song played until the screen went black and the shop was silent once more.</p><p>“No sunglasses, no Bentley,” Aziraphale murmured, clutching the phone close. “No mobile telephone.”</p><p>Something certainly wasn’t right.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Typically, Aziraphale respected Crowley’s desire for space to “cool down” whenever they had a row or aggravated one another to the point where they’d have serious words that they didn’t mean. He’d need those moments alone, too, to process what he’d said and how he could've said it better, and maybe stew a little bit, if he was being honest. Crowley would eventually come back when he was ready and they’d have lunch or drinks or something from the bakery down the street and everything would be tickety-boo.</p><p>He also would typically never simply barge into Crowley’s space uninvited and without permission the way Heaven and Hell had always barged in on them. Of course, it was different when Crowley did so because it wasn’t exactly without permission. Crowley could safely come and go from the bookshop as he pleased, that was a key point in his decision to open a bookshop in the first place. Shops could be barged into, flats could not.</p><p>And yet, Aziraphale miracled himself to the flat in Mayfair and took the lift up to Crowley’s floor. Blazer tucked over his arm with phone and sunglasses safe in his own pockets, Aziraphale knocked politely once before letting himself in with an apology at the ready. It didn’t matter though. The flat was just as empty as the bookshop, if not emptier.</p><p>The device next to Crowley’s telephone had a light on that it didn’t normally. When he pressed a button to investigate, he was dismayed to realise it was just the recording of his own voice. So if his voice could be recorded like that, then it was entirely likely that Crowley’s had also been a recording of some kind. After consulting with the plants, his suspicions were confirmed. Crowley hadn’t been at the flat at all.</p><p>Desperation cut through him, sharp and sudden like a knife to the back, and he closed his eyes and reached out with his ethereal awareness. His senses swept over London, stretching past the edges into the neighboring towns, then farther still into every village and borough in all the United Kingdom until he reached the sea on all sides. The gaping lack of Crowley was overwhelming, not a trace of him remained.</p><p>Aziraphale sat heavily in Crowley’s throne-like chair and smoothed out the blazer over his lap, running his hands over the fabric as the shock of the very real feeling of being entirely alone faded. He couldn’t dwell on how unsettling it felt - <em>he couldn’t find him</em> - instead debating his next course of action. One of three things had likely occurred. One, Hell - or Heaven, even - had somehow taken him, whisked him off this plane right in front of Aziraphale’s very eyes to exact vengeance or unspeakable torment on him. Two, Crowley had been summoned somewhere outside of the UK by demons or humans - as Aziraphale knew it was very possible for humans to summon demons if they had the right tools at their disposal. Or three, Crowley had miracled himself somewhere of his own accord and wanted it to be somewhere Aziraphale wouldn’t look.</p><p>The third option, while not at all pleasant to dwell on and made the heart in his corporation twinge like a plucked wire, was the least life-threatening, so could be tabled until or unless the other two didn’t pan out. </p><p>Inhaling deeply, Aziraphale let his breath sit in his chest and puff it up, flooded with resolve. First things first, he’d go to Heaven- no. Hell. The scent of sulphur and smoke was much more potent than Crowley’s regular scent, which usually evoked memories of the Garden, fermented fruit and soft soil, which meant they must have been behind it somehow. They had the power to whisk him away at will. He’d mentioned, too, something about demons before they’d grabbed him. He must have figured something out, uncovered a plot of some kind. Retaliation against them. </p><p>Fists clenching in Crowley’s blazer, chest still burning with the fire of his righteous anger and the breath in his lungs, Aziraphale stood from the throne and marched across the office. He didn’t know how he’d get into Hell, but nothing, not even the Almighty striking him where he stood would stop him from going down there and showing them just what mistake they’d made taking Crowley from him-</p><p>He made it halfway to the front door before his knees buckled and his head filled with static. Aziraphale clutched the blazer to his chest as he grappled at the wall with his free hand, steadying himself as an ancient, faintly familiar sensation tingled somewhere deeper than his corporation, starting at the back of his skull and moving inward, into the center of his very being.</p><p>
  <em>Angel Aziraphale.</em>
</p><p>Dear Lord, someone was praying to him. Not just any someone, he realised quickly, the words making themselves known after the hum of hesitation faded.</p><p>
  <em>“Angel Aziraphale, you'd better be listening because of fucking course I wouldn't have my phone and this is the only thing I've been able to think of.”</em>
</p><p>“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, shoulders straightening as he strained to absorb every word, angelic essence scrambling to trace what was untraceable. Prayers weren’t like telephone lines strewn across the planet, they were bubbles of faith that resonated like the ringing of bells echoing off the endless loops of his existence. The clarity of the words depended on the person praying them.</p><p>
  <em>“Hoping your feathers aren't still ruffled, so you actually pay attention. I was scared and not saying the right things and just- Not getting back into that.”</em>
</p><p>“No, that’s quite alright. We can resolve that later. Where are you?” Aziraphale murmured, gaze flicking across the floor.</p><p>“<em>Anyway, I got...</em>”</p><p>Aziraphale waited for him to continue, but the thrum of Crowley’s thoughts ceased and faded until all they left behind was hollow and quiet inside his trembling corporation. His fingers flexed and squeezed around Crowley’s blazer, like it would strengthen the connection, the one-way link, and bring him back.</p><p>“Crowley?” he called out fruitlessly, his name sticking to the back of his throat. “You can’t just leave it at that, you cruel thing, you know how this works.”</p><p>Though it had been millennia since they’d discussed the mechanics of it properly. While humans had been encouraged to pray to the Almighty from the beginning, angels, too, could be called upon in a similar fashion. As Earth’s principality, Aziraphale often felt the whispers of humanity’s prayers as he ventured forth from the Garden. He’d quite enjoyed it at first, knowing when he was needed, providing guidance and advice when called upon by Eve and Adam and their descendants.</p><p>But then their descendants begot more descendants, and the Earth’s population grew too great to sort through the white noise of their many voices. He’d complained to Crowley on more than one occasion - then Crawly and only under the guise of attempting to glean information from the other side by sharing some of his own, but he’d of course been lying to himself, they were very clearly at least cautious friends by that point - who listened with a sympathetic ear. It wasn’t quite like having a thousand voices in his head, but the pressure it caused when too many reverberated within him could be likened to a sinus headache, he deduced when he discovered allergies were a thing before deciding his corporation wouldn’t put up with such nonsense, so it didn’t.</p><p>So as the years passed, he worked to avoid spreading his name amongst humanity. If they didn’t know the Angel Aziraphale, then they couldn’t pray to him. Heaven didn’t seem to mind, preferring for the Archangels to take credit for the blessings bestowed upon the people of the world, so it was a rather foolproof plan. It meant not being as close with humans as he’d been with Adam and Eve and their children, but necessary in the end. </p><p>And for the best. After the flood and the Nephilim, he couldn’t quite bring himself to rebuild that kind of relationship with humans. Not when so many prayers rose out of the waves like desperate hands reaching, and one by one fell silent.</p><p>The same hollow ache yawned in his corporation’s chest as he waited through Crowley’s sudden silence. He’d forgotten how sharp it could feel.</p><p>Then all at once there was sound again, the timbre of Crowley’s prayers much like the coarse bite to his voice when he was annoyed with something, so welcome and warm, a fire crackling at the nape of his neck.</p><p>
  <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I hate praying. I'm doing my best here, but I'm out of practice.”</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale sagged with relief, eyes closing as the words were delivered with purpose unto his divine essence.</p><p><em>“So it looks like I'm in a stone building. Maybe a cottage? I'm trapped in a room with a fucking </em>bedroll<em>. What is this, medieval times?”</em> Oh, Heaven forbid anything remind the poor dear of the Fourteenth Century. But if he was in a cottage, then he wasn’t in Hell. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open and he spun on his heel to return to Crowley’s office as he continued,<em> “And who the Heaven salt circles an entire </em>room<em>? I'm having a fit. Think I'd rather be having that row.</em></p><p><em>“Don't take that seriously,” </em>he added before Aziraphale could stop his search for a pen and paper - he had an entire desk setup, but not a single piece of parchment or a fountain pen to speak of? - and be annoyed with him.<em> “You know it's not true. Listen, the important bit is,” </em>Aziraphale gave up on the drawers and snapped a piece of paper and a pen into being from his bookshop, ready to write down any clues to Crowley’s whereabouts,<em> “I don't know where exactly I am, but I can tell you it's Earth. I don't know who brought me here yet, which isn't how this sort of thing normally works. It's a fucking mess. Just, y'know, don't worry too much.”</em></p><p>“‘Don’t <em>worry</em> too much?’” Aziraphale echoed incredulously. “Well, I’m afraid it’s quite a bit too late for that.”</p><p><em>“I'll be back as soon as I can be. Just... a bit trapped. Do you even know about salt enclosures? Have I told you </em>anything<em>? Bollocks.”</em></p><p>“What sort of fool do you take me for? Obviously I know about salt enclosures.”</p><p>“<em>Whatever. I'll get back to you when I know more. Or when I tempt whoever these bastards are to let me out. We’ll talk when I’m back.</em>”</p><p>And that was that. At least this time the silence returned like the gentle lapping of waves rather than a black hole punched through him. It helped that Crowley purposely ended his prayer instead of being interrupted in the middle, by either himself and his own thoughts or an outside interference. </p><p>Aziraphale set down the pen, the only things scribbled down were <em>Earth</em>, <em>cottage</em>, and <em>bedroll</em>. Not much to go off of, not yet anyway. Though Crowley hadn’t sounded too distressed. More frustrated and annoyed and… something that left a metallic sort of taste on the back of his tongue. Not quite regret, but a kind of melancholy he normally associated with reminiscence of times gone by.</p><p>He was an idiot to tell Aziraphale not to worry, but he supposed it did sound as though Crowley felt he had things under control. At the very least, Crowley wanted him to believe he had things under control. Aziraphale frowned down at the page, then wrote, <em>salt enclosure</em> and <em>summoned?</em> next to his clues. It would explain the sudden whisking away, the being trapped. He wondered if that was why he couldn’t detect a trace of Crowley within all of England, or if it just meant he’d been summoned out of the country entirely.</p><p>Well, he supposed for now he’d just have to trust Crowley to be able to get out of this mess on his own.</p><p>Obviously.</p><p>Aziraphale pocketed the paper and pen, folding Crowley’s blazer neatly over his arm as he prepared to head back to the bookshop. Bugger all that. It wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of research on his end after all.</p><p>Once back at the bookshop, Aziraphale hung up Crowley’s jacket alongside his own coat, then rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. And promptly remembered many of his books were in piles on the floor. Why did Crowley pick today of all days to get himself summoned?</p><p>While he wasn’t certain if there was a way to summon Crowley back from a summoning, or out of a salt circle, he still had his collection of occult books at hand for just such research. Perhaps there was a way to track him, find out where he’d been taken. Then he could show up and surely reason with the misguided souls who made a rather large mistake in summoning his demon. He found cake was often an excellent motivator.</p><p>But how to track someone that was untrackable?</p><p>Aziraphale felt the metaphorical lightbulb flicker on as he gasped with delight. Oh, he had just the idea…</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Ah, hello! Miss Anathema Device? Yes, it’s me. Aziraphale.” He bounced where he stood, pen and notepad in hand and his address book open to the page with the American witch’s name, phone number, and date of birth. He liked to give out special blessings on people’s birthdays if they’d made enough of an impression to make it into his address book. “Is this a good time?”</p><p>“I think so,” she replied, though she didn’t sound entirely sure at first, but then quickly corrected herself. “No, yes, this is fine. I’m not busy. What’s going on? Nothing world ending, I hope.”</p><p>Aziraphale forced a polite laugh. “No, of course not.” Only the end of his, should things go… not pear-shaped, he liked pears. Perhaps avocado-shaped, they were terribly overrated. Or honeydew melon-shaped. “I just wanted to consult with you on something witch-related- well… demon-related.”</p><p>“Oh. And you can’t ask Crowley?”</p><p>“Ah, well, you see- in a way it involves Crowley. He’s ah… well, he’s been summoned and I’m not entirely certain where he is. I was hoping you could track him- or the humans who’ve abducted him, like you did when you were tracking the Antichrist.”</p><p>“Huh. I didn’t realize he <em>could</em> be summoned.”</p><p>“Yes, well, it doesn’t happen terribly often.” As far as he knew, anyway. “You see, my dear girl, I have reason to believe he was summoned into a salt enclosure. It dampens his powers and makes him more or less untraceable to me, as his demonic signature is muddled. I can’t tell where in the world he is, even using all the divine power I have at my disposal.”</p><p>“That sounds terrible.” Anathema sounded quite sympathetic and also like she was rummaging around for something. “Well, I’ve never tried tracking a demon that wasn’t the Antichrist, but I can give it a shot. Give me a few minutes to get everything together. I’ll call you back.”</p><p>Aziraphale brought his books on the subject matter over to the phone and skimmed through them as he waited for her to call back, one of his brogues tapping against the floor rather unintentionally. Patience. An important virtue. He’d need to have a strong handle on all of them to ensure that he’d behave most virtuously when inevitably dealing with the foolhardy humans that dared to summon Crowley from right in front of him. He’d instill in them a heavy-handed dose of temperance and charity.</p><p>That being said, he nearly knocked the telephone from the table in his haste to answer it, books saved from falling to the floor with a miracle before he pressed the handset to his ear with both hands. “Yes? Any news?”</p><p>“Oh- uh… hello, Aziraphale.” It wasn’t the voice he’d been expecting, Newton on the other end of the line rather than Anathema, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have answers of his own given that they did live together. “Er. Anathema’s tried several techniques now, but she’s not having much luck. She’s dowsing right now, but said that’s usually-”</p><p>“-better at a close proximity to what you’re seeking, yes.” Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. “I understand. Well, it was worth a shot. Please be a dear and tell her I very much appreciate her efforts.”</p><p>“Of course. I think she’s still going to try a few more things, just to be sure. She does think it might be north of us though. Not that it narrows it down very much.”</p><p>“No, no. That does help. I’ll see what I can come up with on my end. Though… you were a former witchfinder, were you not, dear boy?”</p><p>“Well, yes. But… I was only a witchfinder for three days,” he replied sheepishly. “I mean… unless summoning demons causes odd weather patterns or shifts in electrical currents, I don’t know that I’d be much help either. But I suppose I can get Anathema to Google any strange things happening north of us. Doubt it would be in the paper already if it just happened.”</p><p>“Well, I do appreciate you trying. Any leads would be at least something,” Aziraphale sighed. “If anything stands out to you in your search, do let me know.”</p><p>Newt promised to call him if they had any hunches or promising theories, and that was the end of that. Back to the original square. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Several hours later, with a selection of his most valued occult books stacked upon his desk, Aziraphale poured over the contents and took detailed notes on anything that was remotely inspired by humans’ true encounters with demons. His reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, black feather quill in hand, he worked well into the night. Even if Crowley did escape on his own, clearly they would need to take some precaution now that they were on their side. Crowley had never made it too clear that summoning was an issue for him in the past, aside from that brief scare in the 1980s and 90s, but once the Satanic Panic had subsided when no evidence could support these supposed widespread cults of vegetarians and yoga-enthusiasts, it never really came up again. Aziraphale had considered it a job well done, and Hell got off Crowley’s back regarding the whole thing.</p><p>But he was foolish if he thought the only thing they’d had to fear was Heaven and Hell’s retribution. How could he forget the danger humanity had at its fingertips? Poised to destroy Crowley’s very essence with one wrong step. Wrong place, wrong time.</p><p>What if the humans he’d been captured by tried to use holy water on him?</p><p>What if they already had?</p><p>Aziraphale fetched his chalk and had just slid the rug out of the way so he could make an attempt at a summoning circle when Crowley’s words reached him from wherever in the world he was. <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I still hate praying.”</em></p><p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped with relief, lighting up as he felt the dip and swell of Crowley’s faith resonate within his corporation. “You know, you don’t <em>have</em> to start every prayer with ‘Angel Azirapha-’”</p><p><em>“I went to the window. Burned the fuck out of my hand in the process of opening it but it'll be fine.” </em>Aziraphale quieted to listen attentively, eyes wide as he wrung his own hands.<em> “Can't see a damn thing but rolling hills and a field. The people finally bloody talked to me, and I'd wager they're just some humans. I just can't sense anything specific through the barrier. There's five of them and they sound Scottish, but that could mean fuck-all.” </em></p><p>“Scottish…” Aziraphale frowned and dropped the chalk, returning to his notes to add that to the list of… well, he supposed they were clues now, to Crowley’s whereabouts. “Well, that would put you north of here, as Anathema suspected. And that’s a good indication you’re still in the UK at the very least. Possibly. If there are five of them all with the same dialect- though they could be siblings or some other relation-”</p><p>“<em>They're... Listen, they're not going to let me out, angel.” </em>Though Crowley couldn’t hear him, he seemed to know exactly when to intervene, quieting Aziraphale’s rambling.<em> “Not yet anyway. They're saying they're occultists and have, er, plans for me. I'll be fine, though. I'll get them to let me out. You know how I am.</em>”</p><p>“I certainly do,” he murmured, tapping the quill against his desk thoughtfully. At least occultists meant there was little chance of them wanting to destroy Crowley with holy water. No, they likely needed him for something, possibly for a deal or whatever it was humans thought they could get out of working with demons.</p><p>Of course they’d gone and picked the demon least likely to want their eternal souls in exchange for a bit of power. Crowley had always said that would take the fun out of it if they just handed it over. When it appeared Crowley had nothing more to say, Aziraphale closed his eyes and exhaled long and low.</p><p>“Well, I suppose it’s a miracle your prayers can get through this supposed barrier,” he mused, then shook his head. Prayer was a power not even Aziraphale fully understood, but he knew it depended entirely on one’s belief in that someone would hear them. Crowley believed in him, knew he would hear him, it made sense that nothing, not even a demonic barrier would stand in the way of that.</p><p>Crowley believed in him. Surely there had to be something he could do to help, to deserve such faith. Faith enough in him that a demon could bring himself to pray. Even if he hated it.</p><p>“Don’t you fret, my dear. I’ll figure something out,” he promised him, wishing that he could hear his prayers in turn.</p><p>But, like their connection to God’s love, that too had been lost in the Fall.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The lamplight burned low in the early hours of the morning as Aziraphale attempted his fourth summoning circle to lackluster results. There was the slightest flicker of power, but it was entirely one-sided, like a call unable to go through over a telephone line without proper connection. It was ringing on his end, but Crowley couldn’t pick up, couldn’t answer the call. </p><p>It was all rather frustrating.</p><p>Aziraphale adjusted his spectacles as he changed course. While he couldn’t bring Crowley here, perhaps there was a way to transport himself to his location by honing in on the energy a demonic barrier must be exuding. Must be, being the operative word though. He didn’t actually know this for a fact.</p><p>His third cup of cocoa had gone cold, not quite congealed or fuzzing at the edges, but definitely in need of being refreshed somewhere around two in the morning. He was starting to grow accustomed to the tell-tale tingling precursor to Crowley’s prayers, the feeling of his thoughts much like the sound of his voice slipping down his spine like water, or whisky. There was always a slight burn it left behind. A yearning.</p><p>“<em>Angel Aziraphale, I've been... summoned.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale blinked. “Well, obviously, Crowley. What the Devil do you think I’ve been entertaining happened to you for the past twelve hours?”</p><p>
  <em>“I should've told you it was a thing because it's dangerous, obviously, to our side and all.”</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale stared at the dozens upon dozens of books on the topic of the occult and demonology and wondered what Crowley thought he used them all for. He somehow kept his mouth shut as he sat with the idea that Crowley thought Aziraphale didn’t know just how dangerous being a demon on Earth was. It was stunning, to say the least. </p><p><em>“I was going to, honestly. It's just humiliating. But there's a book I've got - should be the only physical copy left in existence. It's accurate since I've got notes in it. Maybe you'll be able to do something with it. Getting them to talk isn't working, so... Ah. It's in a safe in my flat. Behind the telly, combination is - I'll give you a mo. Miracle up a paper or something.” </em>He’d already done so, pen poised at the ready, pulse quick as his control on his corporation slipped in the face of a new lead. A new <em>book</em>.<em> “This is me giving you permission to go in the flat too, obviously. You're welcome there. You've always been. I…”</em></p><p>The momentary flash of guilt for intruding on Crowley’s space without his permission was dashed as the prayer trailed off, that ringing in his mouth back and something self-conscious reared its head. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s uncertainty - not in him, not in them, but in something - and he reached across the desk as if he expected to find Crowley’s skin and cover the back of his hand with his own. His bafflement and indignation faded as the urge to reassure him welled in its place, tight and aching when he couldn’t. He’d gone so long without being there to offer Crowley comfort.</p><p>“<em>Combination, right. Losing track of my thoughts and prayers. Ha. Combination is 4-0-0-4.”</em> He didn’t need to write that down, he knew the significance of it.<em> “The telly's on the wall - you've seen it. It swivels out and the safe's behind it. I don't know how much it'll help, exactly, since I don't know if I can be summoned out of a circle. It's salt and iron, so it... You'll see in the book. Don't worry about it too much, alright? I can handle a little pain.”</em></p><p>“Pain?”</p><p><em>“I just can't do any miracles. Must be how you felt in the Bastille. I ever tell you how much I loved that ridiculous outfit? All that frilly lace and the shiny buckles on your shoes. Used to wish you'd kept it. Murder magnet aside.</em>” </p><p>“Oh… darling.” Aziraphale’s fingers curled into a fist, perfectly manicured nails digging into his plush palm. “I knew.”</p><p>He sat with that for a minute in the quiet of the bookshop, in the quiet of his essence. Like he’d done with his hand seeking Crowley’s hand, he reached out with his divinity for a chance to brush up against the edges of Crowley somewhere in the world. But there was nothing. It was just him.</p><p>Aziraphale pulled himself together, straightening his bowtie and donning his coat once again. Back to Crowley’s flat then. He’d see what was in this book, if there was anything more useful than his own tomes, and then…</p><p>Then he’d rescue Crowley. Of that he was certain.</p><p>He found the safe exactly where Crowley had described it, carefully easing the television away from the wall. It opened with a click, door swinging open to reveal a large book bound in the blackest leather. He could feel the infernal energy emanating from it, the power inside of it real and wholly demonic. Aziraphale miracled his gloves from the bookshop and handled it with care as he drew it out from within the safe.</p><p>The pages were old - centuries old - but preserved in the way only something in the care of an angel or demon could maintain. Aziraphale sat with it at Crowley’s desk and perched his spectacles on the tip of his nose as he divined where to begin and turned the page accordingly. It opened to a list of symbols and their corresponding pronunciations - the names of demons, he realised, as he spied Crawly written beside a vaguely familiar sigil. Names were a powerful tool, for angels and demons alike. Aziraphale and Crowley both had been doing their fair share to erase their names from the general knowledge of the human populace. Not because they didn’t care, but for their own safety.</p><p>He flipped through several pages, the first half of the book more or less a roster of all the demons of Hell, signed by each denizen from what it looked like. As if Hell itself had handed over the key to their own demise. Sowing the seeds of their own destruction. Indeed, many names were crossed out and dated. Most of the years were the 1980s and 1990s. Aziraphale swallowed, then ventured further into the book.</p><p>The latter half seemed to be entirely composed of information and instructions for the how-to of summoning demons. However, they were excessively… annotated, it seemed. Normally the sight of red pen marring the pages of centuries old text would make his corporation’s skin crawl, even if it belonged to Crowley, but in this case it soothed some of the writhing beast inside him that feared for his demon’s safety. Reading his little notes - some quips and others… a bit more unsettling, the <em>LEAVE ME ALONE</em> in all capitals seemed to hold within it a sense of urgency and panic - he could almost hear his ranting as clear as his prayers. In the section dedicated to how to attract a demon’s attention and bid them to come to you, Crowley had written a rather insouciant response of <em>Could just say “Oi, come here.”</em> Amongst other things. So this book didn’t have everything right, but if someone had their hands on an annotated version - if there were even copies that had Crowley’s notes in them outside of this book - well, then they’d have a much easier time of summoning a demon to do their bidding.</p><p>A date stuck out to him, in ink that appeared fresher than the rest. 1989. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. He remembered 1989 all too well, the tension that strung Crowley’s tone tight on the other end of the telephone line.</p><p>A page fell out, tucked into the back of the book. Aziraphale picked it up, the paper different from the rest of the pages, but it was written on with the same red ink as the rest of Crowley’s notations. It was a list of dates and events, all along the front and back of the page. Dozens of dates, all of them instances where he’d been summoned.</p><p> </p><p>
  <sup>[<a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1HxlBcSurb0Hd0R_BiU9Um8VuVmFxpJJZuR5_JwatUAA/edit?usp=sharing">Written List</a>]</sup>
</p><p>Aziraphale sat back in the chair and removed his spectacles so he could pinch the space between his eyes with his fingers. He’d had a feeling Crowley had been summoned before, but to know it had been so many times... Most innocent enough, from Crowley’s account, but the description for 1989’s occurrence had his stomach clenching and he bit down hard on the meat of his cheek as he realised the only thing that saved Crowley had been a completely random tragedy.</p><p>He doubted they’d have that sort of outcome again, didn’t want to wish for it for the amount of human suffering an earthquake or some other natural disaster could cause.</p><p>Aziraphale read the book in its entirety, cover to cover, and soaked up every word. If Crowley thought there was something in here that could help him, then he needed to find it. </p><p>Much like he’d poured over Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, he read and reread, his own notes scribbled into parchment miracled at his side. The only thing that managed to tear his attention away was the reason behind it all in the first place. Sluggish, words and feelings stretching themselves to reach him, Crowley called to him again in prayer and Aziraphale’s heart lurched in his chest.</p><p><em>“Angel Aziraphale, they're... These fuckers. They came in here and…”</em> He trailed off, losing focus. Prayers weren’t always a streamlined train of thought, they could be derailed with a flick of a mental switch and lost. Crowley somehow brought himself back, but not before Aziraphale’s quill left an incriminating splotch of ink in the middle of his notes from pressing too hard.<em> “Look, I can't keep myself awake with the miracle block and all, but I'm going to try. I've </em>been <em>trying.”</em></p><p>“What did they do to you?” Aziraphale asked, waiting on the edge of the throne for anything else - even if it wasn’t information, he just wanted to know Crowley was still alright. Was thinking of him, perhaps distracting himself from whatever trials he was enduring. “Crowley.”</p><p>But he was done, it seemed. Finally fallen prey to sleep, perhaps. Aziraphale closed his eyes and sent up a prayer of his own, not to Crowley, but to the highest authority he knew.</p><p>“Rest now, my darling. You need to conserve your strength and that brilliant mind of yours. Rest and dream of whatever it is you like best.” <em>Keep him safe. We’re finally free, please keep him safe for me.</em></p><p>Not an hour later, he received his answer.</p><p>The ringing in his body sounded more like an alarm this time, muscles going taut and eyes wide as the feeling of panic swelled like a bubble ready to burst, clanging with frantic flashes of pain. <em>“Angel! Aziraphale! Aziraphale, please- Aziraphale-! They're- Fuck, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts-!”</em></p><p>“Crowley!” Aziraphale shot up from the desk, quill and spectacles clattering to the floor in his haste. </p><p>The remnants of the prayer roared in his ears like a ravenous fire, consuming all rational thought as he was left with only echoes of Crowley’s desperation and the knowledge that he was being hurt. They were <em>hurting</em> him.</p><p>Snapping his chalk to his fingers, he dropped to his knees and drew a hasty circle with the sigil for Crowley’s name. He didn’t need salt, he didn’t need to trap him. But he did need a blade.</p><p>The reason he couldn’t summon Crowley was because his summoning circles so far were likely equal in power. It was as if he was attempting to tug on Crowley’s arm while his feet were trapped in a cement block, seeing as he was trapped in a salt enclosure. Salt and iron. And possibly something else. Possibly with... </p><p>Only holy things would make a demon cry out like that. Would make Crowley. </p><p>No, he needed more power in his summoning circle, something to rip Crowley from wherever he was back into the safety of his flat. Blood amplified the ritual, as the instructions clearly laid out. While a virgin’s blood wasn’t necessary and did nothing to heighten the potency of the summoning, the same surely could not be said for an angel’s blood. </p><p>Crowley didn’t have much in his kitchen, but he did have a set of stainless steel chef’s knives for show. Aziraphale miracled one into his grasp, then cut into his left wrist. Blood welled to the surface quickly as he tossed the knife aside with a clatter, then gripped his wrist with the opposite hand and squeezed. It drizzled into the center of the circle, Aziraphale guiding the flow as best as he could until enough had been spilled. He rubbed his thumb over the wound to seal it up, flesh stitched back together seamlessly as though the cut had never been there save for the blood still staining his fingers.</p><p>Angelic blood charged the circle, he could feel the static of its power crackling throughout the flat. Lightning streaked the sky above Mayfair, cutting through the dark of night and spearing the stars. Aziraphale’s eyes opened, bright blue and searching beyond what he could physically see as he thought of Crowley and his endless coils, reaching, reaching for him…</p><p>But there was only emptiness. Just as he couldn’t detect Crowley with his angelic abilities, neither could his blood pull him out of whatever Hell he was trapped in. The scent of lightning and ozone rippled around him as the surge of power faded and an angel cried out as he slammed a bloody fist into the concrete floor.</p><p>White wings beat into the air, spanning the width of Crowley’s study, his pages of notes scattered across the room. They trembled with power held at bay only by the fact that there was no outlet for his Heavenly wrath. No one to smite, to demand they give him Crowley back. There was only Aziraphale, kneeling on the cold concrete of the Mayfair flat. </p><p>The tips of his feathers brushed against the hard floor as he drew his wings in close, cocooned in the soft down as he covered his face with his hands. </p><p>“Crowley...”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>I did take some liberties here - as Syl did with chapter 1 - with the fixation on Satanism and how it affected real demons for the sake of the story in the beginning, but it worked for our timeline and Syl and I thought it would be interesting to examine Aziraphale and Crowley’s experience with something like this.</p><p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>Verdict is that it's interesting, but ow. 💖</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>Also, in the beginning there is mention of a real person who I’ve attempted to characterize based off interviews I’ve listened to, but I’m in no way claiming this is how he is in real life. Kenneth Lanning was the special agent who did the bulk of the FBI’s research into satanic ritual abuse in the 90s. Just as an FYI!</p><p>Thank you for reading and we'll see you on Monday for chapter 3!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A demon is trapped, and occultists have plans.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>So fair warning on this one - the original chapter was written in one night as a catharsis after I'd had one terrible day. It's the heaviest of the five in regards to content.</p><p><b>Content Warnings:</b> lots of swearing, blood mentions, weapon usage - knives, non to mildly graphic descriptions of wounds/torture, murders of unnamed OCs (arguably in self-defense), canon-compliant murder mention, past recollection of tempting someone into suicide (but it was Hitler so can we really be mad) but still non-graphic, blink and you miss it Holocaust reference, disassociation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Present Day</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>A Cottage</em> </strong>
</p><p>The worst thing about the fucking landing was that it existed at all. The way the body went limp, a marionette on snapped strings, always meant landing on one's knees. Crowley hated getting on his knees for anyone, let alone people who were keen on dragging him wherever they saw fit. He normally corrected that as quick as anything. Except once in 1989, the pain so stunning he'd been frozen.</p><p>It was twice now, a sensation he’d hoped never to feel again rippling over his skin. It wasn’t unlike a limb falling asleep - something he’d only allowed to happen once and the prickling had been so intense and unpleasant, he’d switched that right off never to be felt again. He knew it would only intensify the longer he was stuck, so hopefully this was just going to be some easy little thing.</p><p>Easy, please Someone, let it be easy.</p><p>He lifted his gaze, only seeing shoes and the edges of dark robes before a door closed.</p><p>Crowley sat back on his heels sharply, poised above a red-tinged outline of his own damned name in the dirt, and stared blankly at the wooden surface all of ten seconds before, “Oi! You don’t just summon a fucking demon on a lark then close the door on him!”</p><p>He surged to his feet and stalked to the offensive, very human barrier, but he couldn’t reach the handle. The attempt singed his fingers, like touching a hot pan. Hiss sharp, he waved his hand and tried shouting again. Who the fuck-?</p><p>Could it be Hell? Something in his chest coiled tight at the thought, the possibility nothing short of terrifying. “He” had already undergone a trial - more than could be said for Aziraphale - so couldn’t fathom what the issue would be now. Unless it was Hastur. Couldn’t take a fucking joke, Hastur, but he’d doubtlessly find something like this funny. Of all the denizens of Hell, he’d know how much Crowley hated the whole concept of summoning. If not for Hastur, none of the fucking books Crowley had been tasked with distributing would’ve gone anywhere but a fire pit.</p><p>So it could be him. Any attempts to reach out with his demonic essence to check, though, didn’t get any further than the barrier. A barrier, he quickly realized, which encompassed the entire room. Dirt floors, one window that had seen better days, that damned door, and... a bedroll.</p><p>Like they were planning on keeping him a while.</p><p>He tried in vain for several minutes to push his essence out of the barrier, to reach Aziraphale’s, but he couldn’t feel anything and, when he came back to himself, the pain amped right up as if the salt and iron embedded in the bloody - literally - circle had felt him. Or perhaps he’d just touched the edges too much and it was his own demonhood attacking him out of spite. That would track, wouldn’t it?</p><p>Either way, he had to sit for a few seconds, minutes, and breathe through the pain. An attempt to turn off breathing went nowhere, his corporation’s lungs desperate for air after a bit of that. He couldn’t make his heart stop beating either. His wings were out and he got an uncomfortable shot of 1989 deja vu. He curled them in close and tight and closed his eyes, blocking out the pain as only a demon could probably do. He’d survived the Fall, the infernal burn that had blackened the white from his wings and melted his halo. He could damn well handle this too. Had to if he was going to get back to Aziraphale.</p><p>His eyes opened on a sharp inhale. <em>Aziraphale</em>. Oh, <em>fuck</em>. Fuck, shit, bollocks, fuck, fuck, <em>fuck</em>. Whisked right off. Gone. Right in the middle of a... mng. Not an argument, exactly, but something like it. Definitely some hard fucking feelings. Christ, he’d probably think he’d run off as a joke or something. Probably search the whole bookshop for him, or at least the sofa he preferred to lounge on, the back area they’d spent so much time together in. Probably call him, and-</p><p>Another sharp inhale of realization had him patting his useless pockets for his phone, only to remember it was in his blazer pocket. Which was on a shelf. In the bookshop. Crowley raked his hands through his hair on an angry growl he hoped whoever had summoned him heard. He hoped they shook in their stupid boots at it, but no one came.</p><p>No one came for two hours of Crowley plotting, trying miracles, trying to reach for the door a few more times, trying to find the edges of the barrier to try weakening it somehow. It might burn his hand off, but maybe he could brush some salt out of the way? No, he’d rather use the edge of a wing to try something that insane. He used his hands a sight more anyway. But he couldn’t find the lines. He could get close to the wall, though touching the stones burned. Like they’d embedded the circle into the stones themselves. Or had possibly spilled the circle just on the outside of them? There was definitely a muddy looking ring along the wall, the dried blood unmistakable. He could smell it, his senses working overtime in his panic - not that he was panicking, mind. This wasn’t panic. This was... intense studying of a situation or something.</p><p>It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered after a solid two hours of pacing and not-panicking, so he sank down onto the bedroll because he’d just rather not sit in dirt like an animal or like some twat from the Dark Ages. What else could he do? There was no way to communicate with Aziraphale and whoever had summoned him didn’t seem keen on paying him a visit, so...</p><p>Hang on. </p><p>Crowley turned his thoughts back to Aziraphale. The angel had seen him get whisked away. The <em>angel</em>. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, a too-sharp canine making him hiss in pain. “Keep it together,” he muttered to himself, and immediately hated it. He didn’t talk to himself. He talked to his plants and, on rare occasions, he ranted to God directly for whatever injustice he felt he was suffering at the time. He did <em>not</em> talk to himself.</p><p>But he could maybe... <em>possibly</em> talk to- No, bugger it. He <em>could</em> talk to Aziraphale. He knew it was possible, remembered those earliest of days when the lines between demon and angel had still been drawn. Not firmly, never, but drawn. But he remembered interrupted conversations, the angel always properly apologetic for being distracted, but then he’d say one of the humans needed him and he’d be gone.</p><p>Then the days had continued and the joy he’d taken in those innocent beginnings had begun to dim, worn away by the buzzing of too many voices. No voices knew to call out to Principality Aziraphale now - barring a tiny handful who had been on an airfield the day the world hadn’t ended, though Crowley knew they weren't aware of just how easy it would be to reach them. No, an exchange of phone numbers had been enough. </p><p>He shook his head, listened but heard no voices beyond the door, and closed his eyes to try and explain to Aziraphale that, no, he hadn’t run off somewhere. He’d better not still be mad, had better not block him off, but...</p><p>Crowley trailed off before he could say - or was it think? He didn’t want to call it praying. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to admit to the summoning bit yet. Which was stupid. He knew it was stupid, but that didn’t help.</p><p>He did drag himself back into it, though. He knew better than to leave Aziraphale hanging. He remembered how many days aboard the Ark had been spent trying to distract the angel from the very abrupt ending of too many prayers. He’d always been good at distracting Aziraphale, pulling him out of his own head. He got bogged down too easily, and Crowley didn’t want to be the <em>cause</em> of any of that.</p><p>He kept this one light, a quick description of where he was without any of the how. He felt a twinge of guilt for not having told him about salt circles, but tried to keep that to himself. He didn’t know just how much got through with this connection, firmly ignoring any part of his mind that suggested nothing was getting through at all. If he could keep himself and the Bentley together through a ring of fire which had so very easily - and enjoyably - discorporated a Duke of Hell, he could talk to his best fucking friend.</p><p>He didn’t do it again, though, for a few more hours. The pain was a gnawing thing, like needles jabbing him over every surface. His tongue had forked and he couldn’t get it back to normal, also positive his eyes had gone completely gold. He couldn’t see them and he couldn’t quite feel them the way he normally could either. Just another sensation amongst all the rest, really, and none of it bettered by the opening of the door.</p><p>Crowley stood immediately, fingers dipping into his pockets. He could only see three hooded figures, but he’d been able to hear five Scottish voices whispering outside the door for the past two hours. Though he’d been straining his ears to hear anything, <em>anything</em> at all, about where he was and why he was there, they’d said nothing of value. He’d been able to hear a lot of writing, though, and was a little worried they knew just how good his hearing was.</p><p>“Hi, guys,” he greeted, angling his head a touch. “Bit rude to keep me waiting, but I suppose you wanted to wait for everyone to arrive. You gonna stand out there like that or file in?” His smile was too sharp, but he couldn’t keep his fangs in check. It was all he could do not to pool into a coil of scales. “I’d love the company.”</p><p>No one took the bait.</p><p>The one in front lifted his head and Crowley was only just able to make out his eyes. They were masked. Mouths and noses were covered in black cloth, the eyes clear but for the shadow of the hood. Humans, he’d wager, and yet something was very off about them. “Demon Crawly, we have summoned you here to do our bidding.”</p><p>“Yeah. No. That’s not really my scene. I’m a freelancer these days.”</p><p>He continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken. “You will remain here until we are finished with you. If you cooperate with my fellow occultists, it will go much faster.”</p><p>Occultists. That explained the oddness. Ones willing to summon a demon weren’t in the same league as Book Girl. “Cooperate with what? You haven’t given me much to go on here.” He spread his hands. “How’m I supposed to-”</p><p>The door swung shut, cutting him off, and Crowley jerked. Partly in offense, mostly in shock. He’d only been summoned eighteen times across the millennia, but no one - not even those in 1989 - had been like this. He pressed his lips together and whirled around, stalking about the room since that was a much better word than pacing. Aziraphale paced. Paced and fretted. Crowley stalked and... contemplated. Right. </p><p>Crowley looked towards the single window. It was grimy and didn't seem as if it would open at all, but if he could see outside, maybe he could get something. He crossed to it and reached out, hand jerking back when the dirty pane burned it. But then he reached out again, hesitating only a moment before slamming his fist straight through the glass. He drew back quick, the back of his hand and his knuckles sliced and the skin appearing as if he’d gotten quite a sunburn besides, but he could look out the window.</p><p>In his next prayer, he only told Aziraphale about the burn and technically telling him he’d opened the window wasn’t a lie. It <em>was</em> open...ish. He could see out of it at any rate, though all that gave him and all he could tell Aziraphale was that there weren’t exactly any neighbors. Plenty of rolling hills, though, and a field. Virtually useless, but it was definitely Earth. Watching the sunset, Crowley picked glass out of his hand, wrapped a torn off strip of bed roll fabric around it, and hoped to Someone that these <em>occultists</em> would want something relatively harmless. It wasn’t likely, but he could hope.</p><p>He could hope and he could think, the latter of which keeping him well and truly distracted from the constant barrage of pain. Even his wings were trembling with the effort he was putting into not feeling any of it, but he kept his thoughts firmly rooted on his angel as the hours continued to pass by. He continued to listen to what was being said beyond the doorway, but everything settled around... Well, he didn’t know the time, only that it was dark and had been a while. His watch, for the first time since he’d gotten it, wasn’t ticking. Maybe he should’ve thrown it through the window, the thought making him let out some horrible facsimile of a laugh.</p><p>Vowing not to make that sound ever again, Crowley dragged the bedroll into the very center of the circle where the pain was at its weakest and spent a solid hour calming himself down enough to pray to Aziraphale again. He hadn’t wanted to tell him about summoning this way, but his angel worked well with books. He could use the one in Crowley’s safe, he was sure of it. He’d figure out something. He’d found the Antichrist, hadn’t he? Clever as anything, his angel.</p><p>So Crowley prayed to him, told him about the book and added some reassurances, and when his mind drifted off to thoughts of how pretty he’d been in the Bastille during the French Revolution, he closed the prayer. He didn’t want to babble at him, didn’t want to scare him. Crowley was very privately scared enough for both of them.</p><p>Too scared to sleep, in too much pain to sleep, which was why it was a shock to be awakened to hands reaching for and grabbing him. His wings sprang out, flinging the owners of each set of hands right against the walls. Bringing them back in, he hissed furiously and had to bite back an outcry when something sharp dug into his side. He tossed someone right out of the room, bloody blade and all, and the other two scurried after him.</p><p>The door slammed and Crowley sank down again, untucking and lifting the edge of his shirt to study the ugly slash. They’d been very eerily silent, hardly even grunting when they’d hit the stones. Definitely just humans. No demon would’ve been able to enter the circle and no angels would’ve been so easily scared away. He could hear them loudly talking to their leader even now, ranting about how the book said he should be at their mercy. Hating the book, Crowley ripped another piece of the bedroll and pressed it to the wound. Not a holy weapon, thankfully, but a weapon just the same.</p><p>He’d never been attacked during a summoning before.</p><p>Swallowing hard, he tried another prayer to Aziraphale. But he couldn’t make himself even think <em>they stabbed me</em>. He didn’t want to scare him. And he was so damn tired... It was a useless prayer, ultimately, and he was sorry he’d pushed it into the ether before he’d even finished.</p><p>To stay awake, Crowley pushed himself to his feet to stalk across and around the room. Just focused on putting one leg in front of the other. He ignored the stinging in his side as much as he did the constant prickling over his skin - that is to say, less and less effectively as time went. </p><p>Though only an hour passed before the door opened again. Crowley whirled around, snarling at the ropes the one in front carried. “If you really think you can bind me with some glorified <em>string</em>, you’ve got another thing coming.”</p><p>They entered the room despite his words, Crowley spreading his wings and hissing viciously. He didn’t particularly care that he was coming across as a wounded animal. He <em>was</em> a wounded animal, and he wasn’t going to make it easy on... He felt the prickle of something very holy zing up his spine before he saw the knife. </p><p>Drawn from the sleeve of their apparent leader, Crowley thought of the useless iron bar he’d been poked with in 1989. This was not that. “Ah, you ken what this is? It was blessed by a priest.”</p><p><em>Blessed</em>.</p><p>Crowley’s wings stre- were bound. He yelped, yanked back by the wings as if he’d been lassoed. He glanced back, supposing that was exactly what had happened, and reached for the ropes to rip them away, but that knife. It whizzed through the air, slicing his arm and landing in the dirt. He couldn’t grab it unless he wanted to lose a finger or two, but it didn’t matter. Someone else beat him to it. His wings were suddenly <em>burning,</em> the holy weapon slicing through feathers and into the skin, and his mind screamed for Aziraphale in a burst of panic as he tousled and rolled to get them to stop, stop, <em>stop</em>-</p><p>His body changed of its own accord, entirely separate from Crowley’s rational mind as the snake lashed out. He tore into skin, venom he’d never used before poisoning someone. The ropes couldn’t hold wings that weren’t there, black feathers damp and glistening with his blood scattered across the dirt floor. The knife tried to plunge into him, but he was a being of Hell. He sank into that dirt as if he’d been made from it like Adam, hissing and spitting venom all the while. He just couldn’t <em>go</em> anywhere. The barriers of the circle didn’t care how high or low one got. It was the sideways bit that mattered and, as Crowley’s mind slowly came back to him, he realized being underground didn’t mean an end to the pain. His wings, now part of his serpentine form rather than something whisked into the ether, <em>ached</em>. There were spots of blood on his scales, spots mimicking where feathers had been ripped away, hacked off by that <em>blessed </em>knife and there was now a fresh cut even higher on his side. Crowley hated pressing the wound into the dirt but was too wary to go topside.</p><p>He had to get another message to Aziraphale, to make up for the burst of... of whatever he’d sent him. Maybe he hadn’t heard? Hurt spilled into the prayer, thoughts a little manic, slipping away from him now and again despite his efforts. And at the end they slipped away from Aziraphale too, the usual recipient of unheard prayers suddenly his target. “-od, why now? Why not sssooner? Could’ve killed me ssso much sssooner. You’ll hurt him too. Don’t- Please don’t hurt him. I-” His tongue flicked out, the air scented with dirt and his own blood, but no humans. He was safe from them, at least, for the moment. “You’re not even lissstening. Dunno why I try...”</p><p>His eyes couldn’t close without eyelids and he couldn’t give himself a set when he was unable to perform miracles, but he buried his nose in the dirt and hoped being a few lengths down was enough for him to get some sleep. Just some time away from the pain.</p><p>It wasn’t enough time, a sharp hook stabbing into his nostril and very poor Latin chanting trying its best to force him to surface. As if they were trying to resummon him. He jerked back, hissing sharply. The hook didn’t tear his scales, thankfully, this body far more capable of handling abuse than his human one. He looked up, his underground sanctuary disturbed by fishing line and a hook. He sank down further, wiggled his way through the dirt in a way that wouldn’t visibly disturb anything above. He didn’t know how much sleep he’d gotten, but he could tell the sun was peeking in through the shattered window. He could do this.</p><p>The pain was nearly unbearable, but he could do this. He very carefully eased himself out of the ground, eyeing the three humans. One of them held a net in his grasp, another the fishing pole. What was he, a fish? But he held that thought at bay, the apparent unarmed human very much armed. He could feel the knife. The threat of it reached his demonic senses in a way that made him shudder. They were chattier without their leader, at least. The woman holding the fishing pole scowled. “This is bleedin’ useless.”</p><p>“Shut it,” the knife-holding man urged, casting a cautious look towards the door. “Once we have him, I’ll get what we need.”</p><p>Crowley poked his head further out of the dirt. “And what might that be?”</p><p>The net tried to slam down over his head, but like a whack-a-mole he disappeared again. He burrowed lower, listening to the pounding of their feet overhead and letting the reverberations add just another layer to his constant discomfort. He could do this, he could. Just take them out one by one and then...</p><p>And <em>then</em> what?</p><p>He faltered long enough for one to reach down and grab him by the tail. He surfaced with a hiss, whipping back to sink his fangs into flesh. They and venom sank in, but his already narrow pupils narrowed further when he felt some of his scales scrape and peel away from his body. It was like being rubbed against molten lava and Crowley thrashed, body expanding and contracting until he was flung. Hitting the wall hurt as bad as the scrape, dark red spilling across the dirt and his breath coming out in hissing gasps as he sank back down into the Earth.</p><p>“Did you manage to keep one of his fangs?” the woman wondered, and her bitten companion - at least Crowley assumed it was him - cursed at her before dropping to the floor. Interesting choice of last words. </p><p>Two down now. They dragged the poisoned human out of the room, the slam of the door the only blessing Crowley thought he was going to get. He forced himself to surface, wings and limbs alike bursting free as he transformed. The scrape was on his leg, and he had to fight with his denims to get them up high enough to see the wound. It was deep, flesh scraped away, and it was bleeding anew. He wanted to talk to Aziraphale, ached for his angel, but ripped another part of the bedroll to tie it over the wound to stop the bleeding first. The wound on his arm had long since stopped, but he tied a strip around it too. </p><p>And then he wrapped his wings around himself, very carefully straightening the feathers he could reach. They'd ripped out some of his long primaries, the skin beneath those missing pieces tender. It wasn't like when they naturally fell away or when Crowley worked a feather out during a grooming session. That didn't hurt. It was just natural, but this... Some of his primary coverts were snapped or cut, so he gently worked the broken pieces free. </p><p>He liked his wings neat. He liked them groomed. He focused on them, keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps, and sent another prayer to Aziraphale. He hoped it wasn’t as shaky as the last one he’d sent, less frantic, more like himself.</p><p>The tears on his face were very much not like himself, so he closed the prayer and shifted back into a serpent. The makeshift bandage on his human half kept the damaged spots from bleeding as he sank back into the dirt and tried to sleep again.</p><p>“We need more blood,” he heard sometime later, though he couldn’t say when. Sleep had eluded him, pain wringing him dry, fear of being caught unawares again taking hold of his mind. “Cannae make strong potions without a good stock of demon blood.”</p><p>He let Aziraphale know what they wanted with him, heart sinking in his chest (in a manner of speaking), but didn’t say anything more. He couldn’t, not with a terrifying realization spinning in his busy mind. They weren’t going to let him go. Not ever. They were going to take him apart piece by piece and, as the iron riddled salt circle continued to sap him of his strength, he’d eventually have no choice but to let them.</p><p>“Aziraphale,” he whispered, but didn’t let it slip into prayer, “I shouldn’t’ve been ssso ssstupid...”</p><p>He heard footsteps, heard them whispering about the bodies of their downed comrades and other things that would’ve made any other demon grin. Apparently, it wasn’t only demon body parts which made good potions. Crowley just wished they’d come in so he could bite them all. He could probably hold out in this place a little longer without them bringing blessed iron knives near him. Maybe one of them had a wallet, so he could give Aziraphale something that way. At least get him to the right country, if this wasn’t Scotland as he suspected. </p><p>He had faith his angel would scour every centimetre of the damn country if he had to.</p><p>...Wouldn’t he?</p><p>The door creaked open, and Crowley very cautiously wiggled his way to the surface to see if his visitors were close enough to sink his fangs into. Venom dripped from the sharp teeth, but it was only one visitor and it was the one with the knife. He didn’t have it on him at the moment, Crowley only briefly wondering if it was back up their leader’s sleeve. He had to stay focused, though his vision kept threatening to stop working. His corporation was doing its best to shut down in response to the constant pain, to pull him into a state of shock or whatever it was that human or snake bodies did to keep themselves alive.</p><p>Resilience was normally a very handy feature, but it was proving to be a detriment to him now. “What?” he demanded when the human stayed just outside the door. No one else was nearby, if his sense of smell could be trusted. Probably off to pull apart two bodies in a more... secluded area. He was probably in their usual murder room, after all, with how unaffected any of them seemed by two deaths in their midst.</p><p>“I command you to allow us to harvest your body.”</p><p>Crowley looked as offended as was possible for an injured snake. “I command you to fuck right off. You may have misssed the part of your book where it sssays we work off deals.” It was utter bollocks, but he wasn’t going to contradict the tome. Heav- Hel- Someplace forbid these fools figure out that the book had deliberate inaccuracies. Aziraphale had the corrected version. He’d figure something out. He would. </p><p>Sighing, Crowley started to sink back down into the relative safety of his makeshift burrow, but, “What do you want? My soul?”</p><p>He’d given up on getting any of them to talk, but this bloke seemed rather chatty with his leader out of the cottage. And it was definitely a cottage. Crowley couldn’t see much beyond the doorway, but what he could see was sparsely decorated and... The door. He could see the front door. <em>Yes</em>. So close, but so far. He couldn’t help a pleased writhe nevertheless. If he could just get this circle broken... “Your pals are heading out to cut up the other two. You really think Hell doesn’t already have your sssoul?”</p><p>Above his mask, Crowley could tell he paled. “That’s not true.”</p><p>Crowley may not be a card-carrying member of Hell’s workforce anymore, but he still knew how the infernal place worked. “Don’t be naive,” he taunted, scenting his fear. He honed in on it, pressed his advantage. All of his best temptations had worked through simple honesty and this, Someone help him, this would work too. “Sssomeone practicssing the darkessst bitsss of occultism? You’ll be lucky to ever essscape torture. Down there, they <em>love</em> when humans think they’re masssters of evil. They like to teach them a lessson. Do you want to learn it? You’re jussst letting your pals get away with disssmemberment. <em>Letting</em> it happen.”</p><p>“They’re not. I mean- I mean, that might not be what they’re doing. Maybe they’re just trying to bury them. Maybe Edina is just- just going to Strachan.”</p><p>He filed the first name away. “Ssstrachan?”</p><p>“A shop in town. They-” He gasped and backed away, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled. But Crowley had what he needed. A name and a store. It sounded familiar, but he hoped there weren’t too many in Scotland. He was definitely in Scotland. ...Wasn't he? Yeah. Yes. Not too far from his angel, then. He’d be fine. As long as he could hold on through the pain, he’d be-</p><p>He wasn’t in pain. Well, that wasn’t true. He was. He very much was, but it was... It was halved somehow. Back to the almost-tingling he’d felt when he’d first arrived rather than the constant barrage of stabbing aches. Changing his body again, he tried snapping, but that produced nothing. He was still trapped there, but he could sense a break in the enclosure. He could see a ripple of salt, disturbed by the dramatic sweep of the door. Trembling, Crowley took a step forward and reached out his already burned and bedroll-wrapped hand. It closed on the knob without issue, turned it without issue, and Crowley was out. He wasted no time sprinting across the barren living space - heedless of the single couch and disastrous firepit of a kitchen - and flung open the front door. It faced East.</p><p>There was still pain but, just as he was wondering if it was just residuals, he was suddenly burning. He jumped back, wings flapping frantically as he struggled not to double over from the sudden burst. “No,” he breathed, unable to step onto the grass outside. He could see a gravel path, but it was out of his reach. He tried to remember every single detail of what he could see, but there wasn’t much to go on and-</p><p>There was a ripple in the air. He hadn’t felt that certain rippling since he’d poured the contents of a thermos into a red plastic bucket. Heart racing, he slowly turned and eyed the bowl the human had clasped in his shaking hands. “What’ve you got there?” he asked, pretending he didn’t know. Pretending as hard as he could that the liquid in that bowl wouldn’t destroy him completely. He could hear Aziraphale’s voice in his head as clearly as if the angel was next to him, telling him of all the dangers.</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t have you risking your life.”</em>
</p><p>Before the world hadn’t ended, it was the closest Aziraphale had ever come to saying he cared and cared a lot, that <em>“You go too fast for me”</em> still ringing in his ears and his heart. Too fast, but that only meant Aziraphale was following. He hadn't been brave enough to ask if he'd caught up since, not since a heavy silence in 1989. They were together now, were planning to get a home together, but... Did Aziraphale love him too now? All in, the way he loved Aziraphale? He knew he cared, had been told, but... Someone’s sake, why hadn’t he talked to him when he’d had the chance?</p><p>Swallowing, Crowley kept his mind very carefully averted from any and all praying, ignoring the questions and the bubbling panic because he was pretending this was fine.</p><p>“The book says holy water will make you obey.”</p><p>That fucking book. He wished he’d told Aziraphale about it sooner. He wished they’d had time to come up with a failsafe. He wished he wasn’t such a fucking <em>coward</em>. “Well, books don’t know everything.”</p><p>“Come back inside, demon.”</p><p>“Mnngh, rather prefer the outdoors. Much better for-” The human sloshed the bowl, water trickling over his fingers, and Crowley quickly stepped back into the cottage. <em>Ang-</em></p><p>No. No, Aziraphale couldn’t help him here. Not yet. He couldn’t pray to him, couldn’t get distracted. He watched where he placed his feet, wary of touching a single drop.</p><p>
  <em>“It won’t just kill your body.”</em>
</p><p>He knew. He’d seen it, hadn’t he? He’d watched that water fall onto Ligur, melting him like the Wicked Witch of the West, nothing left but a wisp of steam and a pile of damp clothes Aziraphale had cleaned up for him much later. After a bus ride, before they'd chosen their faces wisely. They'd talked about what had been done with that forty year old thermos, yet Crowley still didn't know how Aziraphale felt about it. They'd been too exhausted for deep conversation that night, too determined and focused on saving one another. Keeping each other safe always. </p><p>Crowley didn't know, watching the human in front of him, if Aziraphale would be able to keep him safe from this.</p><p><em>“I'm not bringing you a suicide pill,” </em>had been the objection in 1862.</p><p>Which had been wrong. Crowley didn't want this to happen to him and never had. The Satanic Panic of the 1980s and ‘90s had resulted in several of Hell's rank being dispatched via holy water. He’d nearly been among them, and he'd been terrified over what that might do to Aziraphale. He didn’t want to be among them now. He was still terrified of what it might do to his angel, more so even. He didn't even have Heaven to fall back on now. He'd been cast out, just as Crowley had.</p><p>Maybe it wouldn't be too terrible for him? People loved angels, for all that <em>be not afraid</em> nonsense. That had mostly been Gabriel’s fault for trying to appear in his True Form one too many times. Not Aziraphale’s doing at all. Times really hadn’t changed that much on Earth - Angels were still good, demons were still bad. </p><p>But...</p><p>But the two of them were something else. Only to the two of them, perhaps, but that's all they'd needed for so long. It was all they had to be - good and bad enough for each other. The idea of leaving him alone was worse now than it had been in 1989. It was worse now than it had been at any moment in their history together. Humans couldn't easily fill that gap. He hoped. So to be destroyed now meant leaving Aziraphale truly alone for an eternity, and what would he do then? </p><p>Crowley let himself get backed into the same small room, watching the holy water slosh dangerously in the bowl all the while. “Demon, I command you to-”</p><p>Crowley hissed at him, shifting back into a snake and sinking right back into the dirt. He wasn’t, he decided, going to come back out again. He was going to stay safe underground until his angel found him, and that was that. He wasn't going to leave Aziraphale alone. He wasn't going to be destroyed. He was fine. This was all going to be...</p><p>He gave himself a few seconds to breathe through this failure before telling Aziraphale about it, the woman’s name, and the name of the shop. He even told him about the escape attempt to make up for not mentioning holy water, wincing when he felt that stabbing sensation return when the so-called occultist closed the circle again. A circle within a circle. He’d never heard of it before and was suddenly at a loss of what to do. He hadn’t felt quite this hopeless since the world had been about to end, Satan himself shaking the ground beneath their feet. He had to hold on as he had then, though. His angel wasn’t there to threaten him, but he could imagine it.</p><p>He had to survive this. He <em>would</em>. He just... he just really needed to rest, but his mind wouldn’t settle enough for it and he couldn’t banish the thoughts with a miracle but tried anyway. Just like his serpentine eyes couldn’t cry, but they did their best anyway.</p><p>Eventually, sleepless and ears ringing, he made himself emerge again despite his intentions. Drawn out by their voices through the broken window. It was safe if they weren't there, wasn't it? Must be. He’d heard them talking again, limbs aching and limp unavoidable when he made his way across the room to peek out the window. His feet dragged, breath laboured and eyelids so very heavy. This close to the barrier, the pain was overwhelming now. Despite the spots in his vision, he could see that the humans were on bicycles. All three of them this time, apparently heading into town for who-knew-what. He’d forgotten to tell Aziraphale about the path. The direction to town. Of course it'd be East. East was a good direction. </p><p>As he prayed, he felt his legs give out. Ankles, knees, hips - the joints crumpled and he collapsed in an exhausted, pained heap. He couldn't move, the stinging burn taking hold. The shock his corporation craved was unavoidable. Crowley finished praying to his angel like that, eyes staring blankly at the stone walls he couldn't pass and chest rattling with every breath. It had been more than twenty-four hours now. Twenty... What was two from five? Add it to four and... Hang on. Had it been more than that, actually? Less? He hadn't had to tell time by the sun in centuries, and he'd been sleeping. So... So how long had he... Aziraphale... How long since he'd seen...</p><p>Fuck it.</p><p>He wasn’t sure if he managed to get beneath the dirt or turn himself back into a snake before he fell asleep - passed out, he’d passed out in the dirt - but he was certainly not underground or a serpent when he awoke. The ropes dug into his arms, binding him, burning into his flesh under the sleeves of his shirt. He screamed at an inhuman pitch, body contorting as the sharp edge of a blessed blade pushed its way into the tattoo at his temple. It snapped something, severed the link to his snake form, and he woke up next after dark and alone with blood matting his hair and dried on his face.</p><p>All he could smell was the acrid scent of burnt flesh, mingling with that blood. They’d gone and had the fucking ropes blessed. They dug into the wrists tied behind his back when he tried to flex enough to break them, burning, it hurt, burning, stabbing, Aziraphale-</p><p>He cut himself off, dragged himself away from the intense ache and focused. The village was to the East, wasn’t it? Must be. Right. East. He’d forgotten to say. He told Aziraphale, then tried to tell him why he couldn’t shift back into a snake. He had to tell him everything. It was bad now, and he to. But the door opened, and they carried the bowl of holy water into the circle. He couldn't see their smiles for the masks, but he could <em>feel</em> them. Crowley couldn't fight that liquid and live. He watched them enter with their blessed weapon and blessed water, and thought of Aziraphale until he could think of nothing but <em>stop</em>. </p><p>They finally got one of his fangs.</p><p>Eventually, he felt sane enough to at least reassure Aziraphale that he was alright. He wasn’t. He hurt everywhere, the coppery taste of blood soaking his tongue and the bowl of holy water still too close for comfort, but he told Aziraphale he was okay. He told them both he was okay because he couldn’t handle being anything less. It was a lie he had to make himself believe.</p><p>It didn’t work.</p><p>After more than an hour of staring at the bowl, more than an hour of feeling that tug at his very essence, he tried to tell the truth about his predicament once again. As the prayer manifested, the door creaked open and he let it go. The fight wasn’t out of him yet, damn it, so long as they didn’t pick up that holy water again. He kicked one of them, though he didn’t know which one as the holy water was picked up. To their - and his own - surprise, he kicked out again and they were quick to leave him be. He desperately needed them to leave him be, though he wondered what they could be planning next. How much longer was he going to be able to handle this?</p><p>Probably not much longer at all.</p><p>Watching the door, Crowley let his thoughts drift back to the last time he’d been summoned. To Aziraphale again, always to Aziraphale. “What are you going to do without me, angel?” he whispered, wings trembling and demonic essence frantically fluttering. It was trying to reconnect to the snake, but the line had been drawn. Until he healed - ha. <em>If</em> he ever got a chance to heal, he’d get that essential part back. For now, it just made him feel broken, cleaved in two. They'd taken a part of him away. Like the Fall. Torn apart, broken, hollowed out, and-</p><p>When was the last time he’d turned into a snake around Aziraphale? A few weeks back? Yeah. Yes. Aziraphale had been dealing with a rather insistent customer and Crowley had slithered, two long metres of him, right up Aziraphale’s body and draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even had to hiss. Just a flick of the tongue and gone the human had been. The stern talking-to he’d gotten for it hadn’t exactly been off-putting, those soft hands stroking his scales and Aziraphale interrupting himself with little kisses pressed to the top of Crowley’s serpentine head. A good day.</p><p>So many good days since the world hadn’t ended, but Crowley couldn’t let go of all the bad days before. 1989 loomed now that he was trapped in an even worse circle and unlikely to get out anytime soon. Eyes closing, he prayed again, but he wasn’t so sure if things were going through. He wasn’t so sure if it even mattered, so he said things he was normally afraid to say, admitted to one of those dozens of hurts and his own cowardice. It wasn’t a goodbye, Crowley told himself, but it was a something.</p><p>Just as he was admitting, too, to them using holy water, the door opened again and the bowl was upturned without a word, half of its contents spilling over the circle. Prayer breaking off without any conscious thought, his spine contorted unnaturally as the searing pain bubbled under his skin, like he was being boiled in ice water. He’d never felt anything like this dueling sensation, not even in 1989. The small vial had been nothing like this. He’d rather Fall again, he decided, barely feeling the loss of more feathers to that holy blade, the tightening of the blessed ropes. More were tied around his ankles and he was left on his bedroll, limp as a ragdoll and struggling to do anything more than hurt.</p><p>It was excruciating and ceaseless, the sort of torture demons wished they could inflict on the damned souls they claimed. If this could be bottled and sold, no one would ever do bad again. No mischief would be worth the risk of a single drop spilling. Was there any human equivalent to this feeling? To the holy liquid splashing over the iron, mixing with the salt. It seemed like it was splashing right into Crowley’s very being, icy waves reaching for the core of him, that empty hollow space God had pulled Her love from. And still his thoughts strayed to one of Her angels.</p><p>Crowley wondered, hoped, prayed that Aziraphale might miss him. He wondered, hoped, prayed that he’d never think about him.</p><p>He couldn’t fight when the humans came back in, the woman holding the blessed blade this time, but he did try. She grabbed his chin, his hiss pained and resulted in his spitting blood at her. She sliced his cheek in retaliation, just below his eye, and he tried, tried, <em>tried </em>to wriggle away when her intentions became clear. She didn’t want <em>below</em> his eye.</p><p>Someone swore, their voices blurring in his mind and ears ringing as more holy water was added. Not to the edges of the circle this time, but spilled into the dirt on accident. The rivulets came too close to him, piercing into him from proximity alone. It hadn’t been like this when he’d poured it from the thermos, but he’d been in the safety of his flat then. It had been a gift from Aziraphale and he’d been careful. He’d been so careful - gloves, apron, tongs. He’d been careful.</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t have you risking your life.”</em>
</p><p>He barely heard the humans, their fury over lost holy water just a dim backdrop to the way his mind seemed to be pulling away from his body. They made the same man as before stay behind, Crowley faintly hearing the name of a church. Desperately disjointed and aching, he pushed another prayer at his angel. He wasn’t even sure if he was coherent, but he did his best. Glenmuick Church sounded familiar, but he couldn’t fathom why. Couldn’t picture it. Didn’t even remember the name of the country he was probably in. He couldn’t think of much of anything anymore. He was tired. His very soul was being toyed with now and he was <em>so</em> tired. He wanted Aziraphale. He wanted their cottage and their garden and the rest of their lives without Heaven and Hell interfering. </p><p>He only blinked for a moment, he was sure, but when he next opened his eyes, he was alone. The door of his room was left open. It was its own torture, freedom close but impossible to reach, yet he stared anyway. Stared and stared until his vision blurred. </p><p>Human eyes could cry, even if they were serpentine from most angles. Crowley’s did as he laid there with holy water only centimetres away and the salt and iron barrier too close to his damaged wings. He thought of Aziraphale and wondered how far away the church was from him. Would he teleport, hopscotching distances until he reached the place? Would he fly? Somehow, Crowley’s lips quirked. Maybe Aziraphale would take a bus.</p><p>Would he make it?</p><p>Would he find Crowley as just a pile of wet clothes?</p><p>...Was he looking?</p><p>Tears tracked through the blood on his face, stinging the cut whatsername had made on his cheek. Two lines slid down, gently washing away the dirt and grime on his face. They linked somewhere on his neck, which was an unusual feeling, but it was a better thing to focus on than any of the other sensations.</p><p>But then, if someone came in and broke his leg, he’d consider that to be better too. He wasn’t a very good judge of <em>better</em> at the moment. Maybe never again if the bloke suddenly in the doorway was right. Some part of Crowley heard him, heard his curses and his discontent. Crowley heard every word, but it was as if he was far away from them. As if the speakers were right next to his ear, but the television was down the hall. The words had no impact on him, even though they wanted him dead now. He wasn’t as cooperative as they’d been expecting. </p><p>To you or Hell, Crowley mused, mouth forgetting how to form words in this bizarre place outside of his own body. His problem, right from the Start, had been a great big streak of not cooperating. </p><p>
  <em>“Stars don’t need to be that bright.”</em><br/>
<em>“Why not?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We all have to train to fight.”</em><br/>
<em>“But why? Who are we going to fight?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She is always right. Never question Her.”</em><br/>
<em>“But how will we learn?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The humans will have Free Will.”</em><br/>
<em>“What is that? ...Can I have it too? Do... do I already?”</em>
</p><p>Oh, yeah. Uncooperative from the Start. If he had been, the holy water wouldn’t be tearing away his essence piece by piece. He drifted away from that thought, losing the thread of his own point, but thinking about it anyway. If he was more cooperative, the Apocalypse would’ve happened as scheduled. If he had, he would’ve been more careful in who the Antichrist was handed to. If he had...</p><p><em>Hamlet</em> would still be a flop. An angel would’ve been discorporated via guillotine and nazis and a dozen other things through the millennia. Assuming, of course, that Eve ever even bit the apple in his little scenario. How does one carry out a Great Plan when all of humanity was in a singular, cramped garden? He may have been able to find that out had he not Fallen.</p><p>He may not have ever even met Aziraphale.</p><p>His mind drifted forward again, leaving the Garden and Before behind. Reality shows floated above the haze, above the heavy drag of defeat. He thought about Aziraphale’s misunderstanding of open concepts. He should really have gotten him over to his place to watch some of the interior design shows. Maybe the angel would’ve figured out what the Heaven crown moulding was because Crowley frankly had no idea. It and original floors always seemed to be so important, particularly to the Americans.</p><p>But he knew what was important to him, though he hadn’t been brave enough yet to tell Aziraphale any of it. He hadn’t been brave enough to say so much... </p><p>Crowley’s thoughts drifted again, swimming above that constant pain. He was so used to it now that it didn’t even seem to hurt anymore. Or was he separating from himself? Discorporating, maybe. He'd never done that before. Or he was actually <em>dying</em> dying. Never done that before either. Something in him had disconnected from it, a telephone unplugging from the wall. Or an alarm system disengaging, any remaining fight slipping away.</p><p>His life didn't flash before his eyes so much as it meandered, six thousand years taking their sweet time playing over the ceiling he was and was not staring at. Maybe it was more than six thousand years, Crowley feeling the tingling warmth of Creation somewhere over the palms tied behind his back. The ropes had seared a pattern of blisters into his wrist, but he remembered stars had tingled. It had been so nice to pull up warmth and colour, shape them and guide them into place. Brighten the dark, cold emptiness of space. It had been fun. </p><p>His brain skipped right over the Fall, which had been significantly less fun, and landed in a garden. He remembered Eve. He remembered being so very fond of her and being so very confused as to <em>why</em>. He had still been reeling from the Fall, still getting used to the new training. Heaven had been all celestial harmonies, and Hell was infernal kill or be killed. Comparing either of those things to Eden was like comparing a flower to the ocean to a bird. They had nothing to do with each other. </p><p>He'd liked Eve when he wasn’t supposed to like anyone. He'd liked watching the Angel of the Eastern Gate walking amongst the two fresh humans, trying to gently encourage them to stay on the path he'd been told was right. Crowley wasn't supposed to like anyone, but he <em>especially </em>wasn't supposed to like an angel. He'd been told enjoyment was gone. He'd been told that without Her love in their cores, they were rotten and hate-filled and they would never be happy again. He'd believed it. Until... </p><p>He remembered that first spark of what would become love. He'd slithered up the Eastern Wall of Eden, struck up casual conversation with the certainty that he'd be struck down before he could fully extend his wings, yet the angel had been so kind. So polite. </p><p>So desperate. <em>“I gave it away!” </em>So desperate for someone to understand, and Crowley had. He'd fallen a little bit in love that very first real conversation, and it had only grown from there. Six thousand years had turned that spark into a flame, something new to fill that hollow core. He’d been shaped and formed around a spark of God’s love, morphed into a shape She had approved of to do the work She commanded. There had been no such things as choice then, only obedience. Loving Aziraphale was entirely different. Loving Aziraphale was... It was...</p><p>It was six thousand years of a demon and an angel on Earth. Snatches of conversation. Shared smiles in secret places. Casual chats in crowds where they would be inconspicuous. The first time they'd gotten drunk together. The first hangover and first mutual decision that, oh, no, won't be doing that ever again. They'd learned about the world right alongside humans in those early days, had stumbled through things apart and, when they were lucky, together. Brief snatches that grew in length and meaning just like his love. That beautiful new thing to fill the emptiness he’d been told was all he’d ever know.</p><p>Yet as his love had grown, Aziraphale had put a little more distance between them. Sometimes. Sometimes he'd let Crowley in closer before fears of Heaven or Hell reared its head and he'd leave or tell the demon to go. Crowley always did, always accepted the distance. He <em>understood</em>. </p><p>Understanding didn't, he found, ease the hurt in this odd place he was probably going to die in. He wished it did. He wished every claim of “we're not friends” had done nothing more than slide off him like water off a... </p><p>
  <em>“Ducks!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What about ducks?” </em>
</p><p>“They're what water slides off,” he whispered in this nothing he found himself in. This floating void of memory. There was no cottage in this place. No stinging of his burns and cuts. No freeze of holy water. There was only a wash of whites and creams and the way Aziraphale had slowly, slowly added some blue and darkened the creams to beiges across the millennia. <em>“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”</em> And yet he’d been the one to bring colour about first.</p><p>There was the way his eyes sparkled a certain way when Crowley would catch him looking. The way that sparkle turned his insides to jelly. In the nice way and not the way he felt in the circle right then. <em>Hamlet</em> stuck out. It usually did. So boring, the only compliment Aziraphale had thought to give was that he'd loved all the talking. <em>Well, obviously</em>, he'd almost said in reply. <em>But what specifically do you like about </em>this <em>rubbish?</em> </p><p>He hadn't asked and still didn't really understand it, but he knew he went every time Aziraphale revealed that somewhere or other was doing a revival. Crowley always had two tickets in hand almost immediately, his reward that blinding, beaming smile. The same smile he'd gotten in the first place when he'd gustily sighed and agreed to help Shakespeare out whilst Aziraphale was in Edinburgh. He'd taken as many jobs from one specific angel as he had from Hell, it seemed, but the ones for the angel never gave him the same headache or heartache. </p><p>Headache and heartache pushed him back a ways - this meandering life was not gliding by in order, apparently. He found himself thinking of Caligula, being so disgusted by him. Just another human Hell had wanted him to tempt, so another human who hadn't actually needed him at all. He'd felt gross and as dirty as Hell could make him feel when he'd sauntered up to a Roman barmaid and demanded whatever was drinkable. </p><p>A bright white toga had appeared at his right. Always, always beside him. He'd appeared with his beaming smile and his brightness and had pulled Crowley up again. <em>“Oh, well let me </em>tempt<em> you to- Oh, wait, no. That's your job, isn't it?” </em>That little laugh had flooded Crowley with so much love, he hadn't been able to contain his smile. Caligula who? Genghis Khan who? Hitler who? </p><p>Well. That last one, he actually had tempted into something. Clever humans with their busy minds. They could convince themselves of almost anything. And Hitler had convinced himself that the smartly dressed man in his bunker, the golden-eyed man only he could see, was a bad omen. </p><p>From there, he'd only had to move the gun into his line of sight a few times. Not a word had needed to be said. Definitely Crowley’s most demonic temptation, but downstairs had been thrilled. Just one more black mark on a hopelessly stained soul. If they knew he'd followed it up by joining an angel and helping liberate more camps... </p><p>Well, they couldn't do anything about it now, could they? He was well beyond their punishments. It had been worth it, and it had been good to really work alongside Aziraphale. Trial run for Armageddon, he'd thought at the time, mind suddenly skipping forward again. </p><p><em>“We can </em>do<em> something. I have an idea.”<br/>
</em><em>“No.”</em><br/>
<em>“You can't say no.”<br/>
</em><em>“No!”</em></p><p>Not that he'd said no for long. Crowley knew how to pull Aziraphale out of his own head, knew the party line upstairs even though he'd hopped right over it and face-planted in Hell. He knew how Aziraphale justified circling around the rules, bending them to suit what he truly believed was right. Even when that right thing hurt both of them. </p><p>
  <em>“There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley. Not anymore! It's over.”</em>
</p><p>“It was never over,” he murmured, though it hurt. It hurt even here, wherever he was. Though he could see the way the words had cleaved Aziraphale’s heart in two now, replaying this memory. Standing there in the third alternative rendezvous point, watching Aziraphale with hindsight, he could see the tears in his eyes. He could hear the wobble in his voice. He could hear the catch in, <em>“There isn't anywhere to go"</em> after Crowley had first said he was leaving. Trying to pretend it was a spat like any other.</p><p>Crowley couldn't reach for him, couldn't hold onto him in this place anymore than he had been able to in that real moment. “You didn't mean it, angel. I know. I know you didn't.”</p><p>More time tripped along, just a few short days that had changed so much. They'd landed not in Heaven or Hell, but on Earth together. Really and truly together. Crowley still loved him, probably always would. Definitely always would if this was really it for him. </p><p>Some awareness drifted back in, but Crowley couldn't handle the pain another moment. He drifted away from it again, floated over their last... Okay, yes, it had been an argument. His fault, mostly. He'd been too afraid to actually say the things he should've said. Again. </p><p>If this was his last chance, though... He opened up enough awareness that he could feel those prickles of pain over his skin, forced himself to tolerate it so he could use his mind to pray. One more prayer to Aziraphale. Not anything useful because there wasn't any of that left in him - how far was Glenmuick Church from the bookshop? How long had it been? </p><p>He didn't know, and he didn't waste time thinking about it. He wanted to talk about the cottage. He wanted to think about a future, no matter how dim it seemed now. He poured his heart and some fears he couldn't help into it. If Aziraphale came, they could talk about it. If Aziraphale was too late... </p><p>Crowley became aware of his shirt being cut open, that blessed blade biting into his skin to drain some of his blood into a bowl that had only recently held holy water. It boiled, startling the human far more than the demon. Was this what it was like to die? Ligur had screamed an awful lot, but Crowley just quietly watched his own blood boiling in a bowl and felt it trickle down his torso like the tears on his face. Wet and sticky, but incredibly easy to ignore. He simply drifted away from it again, closed his eyes and the prayer. </p><p>If it was too late, at least he knew what it was like to love Aziraphale in the open. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>Welp.</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>I have no words.<br/>We'll be back with chapter 4 on Thursday.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An angel goes on a road trip and plenty of prayers go unanswered.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: blood, injuries from torture, begging for death, avenging angel</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>You don’t want to know how many times I cried while writing this.</p><p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>I cried just reading it, so...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Present Day</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Soho</em> </strong>
</p><p>At any other time of day or night, there would have been people on the streets of Soho. They would have felt the perpetual need to shiver caught at the top of their spine and found the hairs on their arms rising. There was a heavy dryer sheet static that would have pulled at each follicle and left everyone feeling as though their skin had been rubbed vigorously with a balloon. Lightning flashed in a clear sky, jagged bolts of cold white light, but without the thunder to awaken the inhabitants of London at a quarter past four in the morning, not many bore witness to it or the thick ozone layer that settled through the streets like sediment at the bottom of a bottle of shaken up sea water.</p><p>Aziraphale was ready to have the entire globe shaking beneath his feet.</p><p>The door of the Bentley swung open and he silently dropped into the passenger seat. Hands pressed to his thighs, he stared sightlessly out the windscreen as his mind raced to piece together a plan. The street outside the bookshop lit up as the beams from the Bentley’s lights flicked on and the engine awakened with a purr.</p><p>There were no keys in the ignition. Aziraphale did not have his foot anywhere near the pedals, but the tyres began to turn all the same. Still staring straight ahead, Aziraphale’s gaze hardened as he offered the car a simple nod.</p><p>“Drive,” he told it.</p><p>The Bentley rolled onto Regent St. and took it up to the A40 towards Denham. Thoughts of <em>Scotland, Scotland, Scotland</em> turned the wheel and coaxed the car out of the city limits and onto the same road the angel in the passenger seat and the demon who wasn’t there had taken just about a year prior, in search of the missing Antichrist. This time it was Crowley who was missing and Aziraphale was very much alone in looking for him. The only clue he had to go off was the claim that whoever had captured him had Scottish accents. It was where he’d have to start.</p><p>As the Bentley approached the turn off that would take him to Tadfield, Aziraphale considered the former Antichrist. It was unlikely that young Adam would be able to sense Crowley either, as much as reality had once bent to his whims, as far as they could tell he’d become wholly human when they’d checked up on him last. No unholy abilities to speak of.</p><p>It was also well before dawn and, avenging angel or not, Aziraphale wasn’t about to knock on the poor boy’s parents’ door before the sun had even risen. He thought about calling on Anathema and Newton once again, but thought that surely they must have been sleeping and was there really any more they could do? Though he did decide to try messaging them via text box, just to let them know that he was no longer at the bookshop and if they did need to get a hold of him, then to try Crowley’s mobile telephone.</p><p>He had it and Crowley’s blazer with him, after all, keeping these little pieces of him close. Aziraphale thumbed over the smooth, black screen, free of fingerprints because both the demon and angel expected it to be. Neither even thought the devices would so much as smudge. Though unfortunately his expectations weren’t as successful with keeping his corporation in check, an uncomfortable lump lodged in his throat as he looked out the window at the darkened countryside. Six thousand years of observing humans and reading about their emotions and their physiological responses to things had quite certainly given him many reactions to expect from his body, especially in times of duress. </p><p>He could still hear Crowley screaming. It didn’t matter that the link tethered to him by prayer had been silent now for what felt like hours, even to an angel. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever stop hearing it.</p><p>As the sun cut through the misty morning, lightening the grey, Crowley called for him and his corporation’s heart could beat again. “<em>Angel Aziraphale, I hope you didn’t hear that one. I didn't mean to- </em><em><sub>I need you.</sub></em><em>” </em>He almost didn’t hear the soft, vulnerable wish, the hope Crowley didn’t dare to have but couldn’t contain. It spilled into his prayers, intrusive grains of sand slipping into the cracks to hide in what he was trying to say, trying to assure Aziraphale… </p><p><em>“They ripped out a few feathers, but I shifted into a snake and bit one. The floors are dirt, of all things, so I'm underground. </em> <em> <sub>Sleep, I can sleep.</sub> </em> <em> I still can't get past the fucking room. This damn barrier... I'm sorry. </em> <em> <sub>Too much, too needy.</sub> </em> <em> It really... </em> <em> <sub>Hurts, it won't stop.</sub> </em> <em> I'll be alright. Just. Hurry. </em> <em> <sub>Please G-</sub> </em> <em>”</em></p><p>Aziraphale closed his eyes as Crowley’s voice vanished. The frequency had changed, his prayers shifting focus from the Angel Aziraphale to a higher authority, even if Crowley didn’t mean to. “I’m coming, darling,” he whispered. “I can only hope I’m going the right way. But you’re so clever, my dear. Turning into a snake. Stay hidden as much as you can. Sleep if you can, and don’t you dare apologize. Not for this.” <em>Not for needing me. Don’t you know how much I need you, too?</em></p><p>Perhaps it had never been spoken, but surely he could see it… surely Crowley knew.</p><p>As the sun rose higher, more cars joined the Bentley on the road and Aziraphale expected the dear car to drive at safer speeds with the added congestion. While he didn’t think Crowley would begrudge him taking the Bentley to rescue him, he certainly wasn’t going to risk anything happening to it on his watch. He wasn’t about to be reckless with it.</p><p>Though he did wish for everyone who didn’t have a dire reason to be on the road right now to turn around and stay home for the rest of the day. Many employers were surprised by the number of sick days their staff took rather suddenly, but surely those hard-working individuals deserved a- what were they calling them these days? Ah, mental health days, yes. That helped a smidge with the traffic.</p><p>His demon couldn’t have gotten much sleep before he heard from Crowley again. <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I know what they want with me. </em><em><sub>Have to get out, but how?</sub></em><em> They tried to wrangle me with a bloody fishing pole and a net. </em><em><sub>Iron knives, you don't need to know.</sub></em><em> Like I'm a bloody fish.”</em></p><p>“Knives!” Aziraphale cried out in dismay. “Oh, how very dare they!”</p><p>
  <em>“They wanted my teeth. And more feathers. Some scales.”</em>
</p><p>“Not your lovely scales,” he bemoaned.</p><p>Feathers were bad enough, his poor wings always so immaculately kept to make up for the singed nature of them, sleek and well-cared for, but his scales couldn’t be banished to another plane. They were a part of him, all the time. It would be like peeling his skin off the bone. The Bentley sped up, pushing eighty as it swerved around a lorry taking too long.</p><p><em>“Their Latin's embarrassing. S'like listening to you speak French. </em><em><sub>Still got jokes, see? I'm fine. Everything hurts. I'm fine. I want to be fine.</sub></em><em>” </em>Aziraphale couldn’t even be properly offended by the comparison, the strings of his corporation's heart pulled tight. Crowley always tried to put on a brave face for him, whether it be because he wanted to project this cool, unaffected image of himself or because he felt it was what Aziraphale needed. That the angel needed a pillar to brace himself against, some sort of foundation to keep him from slipping when Heaven’s support was unsteady at best.</p><p>But Crowley couldn’t carry them both. He shouldn’t have had to or felt the need to, and Aziraphale had tried in all the ways he thought were safe to. He preserved one of those cartoon theatres Crowley had been so fond of, knowing his demon liked to lose himself to the dark when he needed to hide or forget about the world for a moment. He mitigated crazes that would otherwise put Crowley at risk if he were to come in contact with them. He gave Crowley holy water when he thought he’d be more of a danger to himself without it than with it.</p><p>He never talked with Crowley about these things though. Crowley didn’t even know about most instances of his involvement because that wasn’t why he interfered. Aziraphale didn’t want to protect Crowley for the recognition. </p><p>But he was realizing that, perhaps, it should have come up in the days since Armageddon. There was so much that hadn’t been talked about, that neither of them knew how to broach. Selfishly, Aziraphale didn’t push Crowley to say what was on his mind. Not when one wrong word would send the demon out the door in a huff, disappearing for days at a time until his pride returned and he could pretend Aziraphale had forgotten about the entire thing. Distract him with chocolate, pastries, an afternoon out. </p><p>Oh, he’d thought he was doing the right thing, letting Crowley come to him when he was ready… now it just seemed cowardly.</p><p>
  <em>“Look, I... I think they're trying to make potions with me.”</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale frowned. “Can they do that?”</p><p>There was no answer right away, of course, but also Crowley didn’t say anything else in his prayer. Not for quite some time. When Aziraphale did hear him again, there was a certain gravity to the words ringing in his head. </p><p><em>“Angel Aziraphale, they're </em>definitely<em> trying to make potions with me.”</em></p><p>An undercurrent of pain was laced through his words, hiding just behind what he wanted Aziraphale to hear, but he picked up on the panicked intrusive thoughts just the same. <em>S'my blood, they can’t have it.</em> The connection faded out, attempting to ease Aziraphale back into the solace of his own thoughts. Potions. Demon blood. How archaic, he thought to himself, pointedly ignoring the fact he’d attempted a summoning with angel blood mere hours before. That was different. What on Earth did Crowley’s captors expect hacking off pieces of a perfectly good demon’s body would help them achieve? What nefarious ends were they expecting to meet? He could barely conceive of any such thing.</p><p>Well, he supposed he did have a few texts that covered the medieval and arcane arts of potion making, but they weren’t terribly modern ideals from his recollection. </p><p>As he considered whether Anathema would know of any of these more modern methods - though she appeared to have an appreciation for the classics much like himself - Crowley’s mobile telephone began to ring, her name flashing on the screen. Well, not her name so much as the moniker “Book Girl.” He answered promptly, heartbeat racing at the thought of some news in the night.</p><p>“Where are you going?” she asked, rather directly.</p><p>“Ah. I’m not entirely certain, at present. North. Towards Scotland, I believe,” he answered. “I couldn’t just sit there any longer. Crowley’s in terrible danger and I need to find him as quickly as possible.”</p><p>“Scotland?”</p><p>“Yes. It seems as good a place to start as any. He was…” In agonizing pain. Sending his cries out into the ether seeking comfort and protection only for emptiness to echo back. “He needs me. So I- I’m going to him. However I can. He believes his captors have Scottish accents, so I figured I’d make my way to Scotland and then go from there.”</p><p>“Scotland’s rather broad though, he could be anywhere.” They must have put him on the speaker phone, so as to allow for Newton to answer.</p><p>“Yes, well, hopefully it’s closer than London. It shall take me hours to get to the border as it is,” Aziraphale huffed.</p><p>“Wait- are you driving?” Anathema sounded incredulous, eyes likely narrowed behind her owlish glasses. “I didn’t think you knew how.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t, but then neither does Crowley and he somehow makes the dear thing go.” Aziraphale reached out to stroke the car’s dashboard. “The Bentley is a dear, doing exactly as I expect.”</p><p>Unless he could see precisely where he needed to go, miracling himself somewhere was a rather risky and taxing thing to do. One never knew where one would end up - if it was even where he meant to go, it was one thing to say, “I’d like to go to Edinburgh, Scotland,” and another to accurately visualize a physical point in the city to miracle himself to. Cities changed so quickly after all, and they couldn’t always work around his expectations. Driving was really the only way at this point.</p><p>Oh, but while he had them on the telephone… “My dear girl, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about potion making, would you? I’m afraid I left all my books at the shop.”</p><p>“Potion making?” He couldn’t blame her for sounding confused by the abrupt change of subject. “I mean… I’ve used herbs, essential oils, and Florida water in some rituals, but I have a feeling that’s not what you’re asking.”</p><p>“I like the hibiscus and rose petals you put in your bath salts,” Newton piped up. “When you light candles, it sort of makes the tub look like a bubbling cauldron.”</p><p>“That’s not precisely the type of potions I had in mind, no. Apparently Crowley’s captors wish to utilize aspects of his person in a fiendish attempt at making potions with them,” Aziraphale clarified. </p><p>“By ‘aspects of his person,’ do you mean…?”</p><p>“Blood,” Anathema answered before Aziraphale could. “Bone. For a demon, I can only imagine what things they might find useful, but it’s… that’s not something I’ve ever dabbled in. I don’t think any of my ancestors have.”</p><p>Well, that was a relief, not that Aziraphale expected her to have such affiliations or inclinations. “Do you know of any… groups that might engage in such villainous affairs? Covens, perhaps? Crowley says there’s about five of them.”</p><p>“Wait- how are you talking to him?” Anathema pressed.</p><p>“Oh, I’m not talking <em>to</em> him. He’s… sending me messages. He can do that.” Aziraphale liked the two humans well enough, but wasn’t about to crack the lid on his privacy. “But I can’t respond to them, you see. It’s a rather… one-sided affair.”</p><p>“Oh, like how he said he can stop time?” Newt reasoned.</p><p>“Like that, yes,” Aziraphale hedged.</p><p>“Well, to answer your question, I don’t know of any large covens that would advertise such a thing. Witches - in the United States, at least - finally feel comfortable enough to practice a bit more in the open. Maybe not as far as to say they practice witchcraft, but the acceptance of things like crystals and essential oils - however <em>commercialized</em> they’ve become thanks to capitalism - bringing demons back into things would set all of that back, I’d think. Blood and bone when it’s given freely or part of life’s natural cycle is all well and good if you’re respectful, but I can’t imagine there’s much respect in summoning a demon so you can harvest parts of his body. I don’t think Crowley would want to give those things freely.”</p><p>“Nor do I. And they’re certainly not being respectful in the slightest. They’re using knives on him and ripping out his feathers and taking his scales-”</p><p>“Feathers?” Newton questioned. “Scales?”</p><p>“Ah… yes, er. He has… both. Though not at the same time, usually.”</p><p>“So he’s literally a wily old serpent…” Anathema mused. “After meeting you both, I just assumed it was a metaphorical Serpent of Eden.”</p><p>“Oh no. He’s very much a snake. Very lovely, his scales shine like obsidian in the light and his underbelly is a delicate red that reminds me of the first blushing roses to greet the spring… ahem. And the wings are part of our physical form, but we keep them tucked away for the most part unless under extreme duress or have a lack of control over our corporations.” Aziraphale wrung his hands together as he pictured Crowley enduring both, his cries still circling in his head, sounding so beaten down, exhausted, stretched to his limit…</p><p>It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t a memory replaying in his mind, but Crowley reaching out to him again. <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I got one talking finally since the rest seem to be gone.”</em></p><p>“Oh! Oh, hush for a moment, dreadfully sorry,” he babbled on the phone over whatever Anathema and Newton were saying, listening intently beyond his sense of hearing.</p><p><em>“One of them’s named Edina, but the bloke said something about a village nearby. A store called Strachan? I'm so </em> <em><sub>tired…</sub></em> <em>”</em></p><p>“Strachan…” Aziraphale whispered.</p><p>“What’s that?” Anathema asked.</p><p>“I think it’s a name,” Newt offered.</p><p>“Crowley says it’s a store.”</p><p><em>“I'm fine. I almost escaped, by the way. </em> <em><sub>Was a mistake.</sub></em> <em> They keep shutting the door when they leave and it mucked up their stupid salt line. Turns out they have the whole fucking house circled. </em> <em><sub>Not safe anywhere.</sub></em> <em> Got tossed back into the room, a little burnt. Nothing, uh, major. </em> <em><sub>Want to discorporate.</sub></em> <em> I'm fine.”</em></p><p>Discorporate… “Don’t,” Aziraphale begged in a whisper, his palm pressing into Bentley’s dashboard. “I’m coming, darling. I will find you.”</p><p>Nothing more came from Crowley; the white noise of Anathema and Newton’s conversation slowly fizzled back into his awareness as he let go of the residual echo of Crowley’s voice. “-that’s all I can find. I don’t see a store.”</p><p>“Let me try-”</p><p>“Newt, I’m not letting you touch my phone.”</p><p>“Right. Sorry. I’ll get the map.”</p><p>Aziraphale blinked some of the haze away. “Map?”</p><p>“Are you sure Crowley said a store?” Anathema asked him now that he was listening more actively.</p><p>He sat up straight, chest puffed up and eyes darkening to a stormy grey at the mere implication he wasn’t hanging onto every word Crowley spoke. “He said a store.”</p><p>“Okay, well, it’s not coming up in a Google search,” she told him. “But it looks like there’s a town.”</p><p>“In Scotland,” Newton piped up, voice tinny and further away from the speaker. There was the rustling of paper that was unmistakable to Aziraphale as they were likely brought closer, the young man’s voice clearer as he continued, “It’s near Aberdeen. In the Grampian Highlands.”</p><p>“Aberdeen…” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he mentally mapped out Scotland. “North of Edinburgh then… near the coast?”</p><p>“Looks like it,” Anathema confirmed. “Where are you?”</p><p>Aziraphale snapped and a road sign popped up most helpfully to let him know when he’d pass the next sizable city. “I’ll be coming up on Manchester soon, it appears.”</p><p>Anathema started typing something into her phone, but hadn’t yet finished before Newt calculated the distance on paper with his map and a pencil. “If you continue at an average of sixty miles per hour, you should get there in six hours.”</p><p>Six hours meant very little to an ethereal being who’d walked the Earth for six thousand years, but humans could do quite a bit in six hours. Six hours very suddenly felt like a very, very long time. Oh, if Aziraphale only had the same ability Crowley did to make time stand still, he could be there in a blink, whisk him out before the humans even noticed.</p><p>“What if that’s not where he is?” Aziraphale fisted his hand in the fabric of his trousers. “That’s an awfully long way to go without being absolutely certain. You really cannot find anything about a shop called Strachan?”</p><p>“No, I’m only seeing things about the town and the Strachan Clan. And it’s a surname for several people.”</p><p>“Well, you’ve still got a ways to go before you get to Strachan,” Newton tried to reassure him. “Maybe Crowley will reach out to you again with more information?”</p><p>“Yes, perhaps,” Aziraphale agreed, and willed the Bentley to chart a course for Strachan.</p><p>Crowley didn’t reach out again. Not for hours.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sun was setting by the time the Bentley rolled into the village of Strachan. A quaint town nestled in the hills. On any other occasion, Aziraphale might have tried to find the beauty in it, but he felt nothing but an ever-mounting dread as the horizon burned with the last of the day’s light. If Crowley wasn’t close, if he never heard from him again, Aziraphale was quite certain his night would never end.</p><p>After hanging up with Anathema and Newton, he’d had nothing to do but sit for the longest six hours he’d ever endured, only rivaled by that of young Jesus’s crucifixion, another six hours that seemed endless in the presence of such suffering. He watched in its entirety, unable to interfere with the Divine Plan. There was no plan now, nothing preventing him from saving Crowley other than distance. The not-knowing.</p><p>The trip had almost been made longer when he was stopped by a well-meaning officer, who was completely baffled by the car’s lack of a driver. “I beg your pardon, my good sir, but I really must be on my way,” Aziraphale had said, attempting to be reasonable.</p><p>The officer did not want to be reasonable, however, too caught up in the fact that the car had been moving and changed lanes without anyone touching the steering wheel or the accelerator. “...Sir, I'm going to ask you to step out of the car, please.”</p><p>“I really don't believe that's necessary,” Aziraphale had insisted, not wanting to use a miracle on the poor man when he was just doing his job, but he really did not have time for any delays.</p><p>“Really, sir. I'll need to see your identification and insurance.”</p><p>With a huff and a snap, Aziraphale rolled his eyes and watched as the officer’s turned glassy. “That is <em>not </em>necessary. I ask that you step back from the car, please, as I'll be on my way now.”</p><p>“You'll be on your way now,” the officer echoed vaguely, doing as the angel commanded and stepped closer to his own vehicle. Then added, because manners were still expected, “Have a good day, sir.”</p><p>“You as well.” Aziraphale had nodded firmly, then gave the Bentley’s dash a reassuring pat. “Come along then, dear. On we go.”</p><p>It was luckily the only delay he’d faced, all accidents narrowly avoided at the last second and inclement weather staying well and far away from the M6 and into the motorways in Scotland. They maintained a steady speed of seventy-five miles per hour, pushing eighty a few times when there was no one else on the road to witness the bad example.</p><p>Aziraphale had also attempted to use Crowley’s mobile telephone for its access to the internet. He’d attempted to research the Strachan store as well, but was just as much at a loss as Anathema had been, if not more so, being unfamiliar with this piece of technology. His only hope was that this Strachan was the correct one and had a shop.</p><p>There was no shop in Strachan. There was a park and a primary school and dozens of houses. There was also a cattle farm. And a church.</p><p>Aziraphale stepped out of the Bentley and strolled up and down several of the more congested roads, reaching out with his divinity for any traces of occult activity. Anything evil. Even if he couldn’t sense Crowley, surely the humans who had him would be steeped in Hellish energy. But there was nothing.</p><p>He changed course as he returned to the Bentley. “A pub! Yes, there must be a pub nearby. Humans have gathered and exchanged information in pubs for centuries- millennia, even. I’ll find a pub and ask if anyone’s noticed any odd goings-ons.”</p><p>Strachan also did not have a pub, but after inquiring at the church, he was pointed towards the town of Banchory to the east and Ballater to the west. After quite a bit of tapping and firm encouragements directed at Crowley’s mobile phone, it helpfully supplied that Banchory was closer. Not wanting to be too far from Strachan, his only lead, he asked the Bentley to take him east. East was his direction, after all. It had to be a sign.</p><p>As he left Strachan behind him, his breath was punched out of him hard and he realized he’d stopped breathing somewhere around Carlisle, Cumbria when it had been hours since he’d last heard from Crowley with more hours still to go.</p><p>
  <em>“Angel Aziraphale, they don't have cars and there's no visible road. Just a simple path. No plants.”</em>
</p><p><em>I want that garden with you</em> was half-hidden, a want he did not desire to give words to, but the feeling came through regardless, ringing in Aziraphale’s awareness and forcing tears to his eyes. “Oh, darling,” he hiccupped, circulatory system pulsing with relief as Crowley’s prayers washed over him like a soothing balm to his essence.</p><p><em>“They bicycle into town. I saw them through the window. </em> <em><sub>Burned, hurts, hurry.</sub> </em> <em>Can't really tell you what they look like. Always wearing masks and hooded robes. </em> <em><sub>A fucking cliché is going to kill me.</sub></em> <em>” </em></p><p>“Don’t be so dramatic,” Aziraphale whispered, because he had to believe his demon was just up to his usual fussing. For all Crowley claimed Aziraphale was a fussy angel, he certainly had his own moments. But he did feel weaker. He’d heard the prayers of the dying before. This wasn’t so different.</p><p>Aziraphale looked out the window to focus on other parts of Crowley’s prayer. No visible road, no plants, bike paths… “Well, my dear, where I am currently appears to be quite rural, so that’s promising. Not much greenery,” he replied, as though speaking his words into existence would somehow allow them to reach Crowley. “I see some trees in the distance, but depending on where your window is facing, it’s certainly possible that you can’t see them. A circumstance where you can’t see the forest or the trees,” he tried to joke, his chuckle strained. “Isn’t that a funny play on words, dear? Surely even you must get a kick or two out of that.” He hoped he was going the right way. Dear Lord, please let him be going the <em>right</em> way. </p><p><em>“Angel, it... It's hard to stand in here for long now.” </em>Aziraphale’s throat closed up and he forced his corporation into absolute stillness as his hands clasped together in his lap.<em> “Sort of feels like... like swimming for too long. You can stand it at first, and it's not like the strain is really noticeable </em><em><sub>always noticeable in here</sub> </em><em>but then the longer it goes, the more tired you get. You're looking, aren't you? Must be. You must be. </em><em><sub>Do you love me enough?</sub></em><em>”</em></p><p>Aziraphale didn’t have words. His lips parted, but not for breath or for speaking. Struck dumb, just as he’d been in 1989, when the creature he loved asked if he’d <em>miss</em> <em>him</em>. </p><p>
  <em>Foul fiend. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We’re not friends. I don’t even like you.</em>
</p><p><em>There is no </em>our<em> side. It’s over.</em></p><p>
  <em>So sorry to hear it.</em>
</p><p><em>We are an </em>angel <em>and a </em>demon.</p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t be surprised that Crowley had to ask. He didn’t have a right to allow the question to cut into him with a dagger’s rusty edge and paint the blade in his own guilt. He’d been the cruel one. He’d been to blame.</p><p>A tear slipped down his cheek, the only movement he made until the Bentley stopped outside the Stag Hotel in Banchory. As it settled into park, the spell was lifted and Aziraphale hastily dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief. Then he smoothed down his waistcoat and straightened his sleeves. He wouldn’t stop looking until his demon was found.</p><p>And when he was, the humans who had him would need to be the ones praying for their mercy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Banchory had many shops and several pubs. Aziraphale flitted to each storefront until they’d all closed for the night, then took to the pubs for some additional digging. At the start of the evening, he’d been tactful with his interrogation, keeping things simple, but by the third pub he was snapping every occupant into a trance and demanding if they’d seen or heard of any occultists in the area. If anyone had sought out copious amounts of salt at the store. Was there a group holed away in some cottage on the outskirts of town? Had anyone heard unholy screaming in the night and if they had and did nothing, then so help him…</p><p>He relinquished his hold on them all without harming a hair on their heads. They didn’t know. They hadn’t heard. He couldn’t hold innocent lives in the crosshairs of his own frustration and failure.</p><p>Crowley would have found him by now. Aziraphale had never truly feared discorporation or destruction on Earth, not as long as Crowley walked it with him. There had been a flicker of doubt in 1941, but Crowley had come to him so quickly, there’d barely been time to fret properly.</p><p>If their positions were reversed… Crowley would have found him.</p><p><em>I can’t find you!</em> He sometimes cried out in his sleep, fingers like claws as he reached for him, voice shattered as Aziraphale rushed to his side to smooth his palm over his brow and whisper, “That’s enough now, my darling. No more terrors this night. Sleep and dream of whatever you like best.”</p><p>He didn’t always make it before Crowley woke himself up choking on his own panic, but when he did, he kept watch through the night, fingers carding through dark red hair in a way he didn’t think Crowley would allow himself to enjoy were he awake. They were making progress, but there was so much vulnerability they still kept locked away. Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to know how many hours he lost to watching Crowley steal a little bit of peace while he slept, and Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to know the needy sounds he made at his touch or the way he pushed into his fingers, starved for affection. Aziraphale himself starved for the same. For millennia he'd held himself back, permitted to look but not touch, corporation blushing at the brush of fingers or the whisper of Crowley’s coat against his as he orbited him, surrounded him with his presence. Aziraphale clutched at it with both hands and wrapped himself in the coils of Crowley’s love, telling himself he had to be content with it. Telling himself it was all he could have. That he shouldn’t even want that much. That it was wrong, it was wrong, <em>it was wrong</em> to want Crowley’s hands to linger or his scent to stay. </p><p>And yet he had one of Crowley’s feathers set in a quill, base all gleaming silver and the vane itself pristine, not a barb out of place - if by miracle or by the way he’d spend some nights thoughtfully stroking that single feather between his thumb and forefinger while he read or reflected.</p><p>He rubbed Crowley’s blazer, the material not quite offering the same kind of comfort, but it was Crowley’s and it was the closest he could have him in that moment. Perhaps there had been one instance where Crowley did not make it to him in time, but Armageddon had been at hand and hadn’t he tried to take Aziraphale away from the danger? Twice?</p><p>Aziraphale had no one to blame for his discorporation other than himself. Well, and Sergeant Shadwell. But mostly himself. He’d deluded himself for so long, believing Heaven loved humanity the way he did, even if they’d never showed it. And then he’d deluded himself again, believing Crowley knew he was loved even if Aziraphale went years and years and <em>years</em> without showing it.</p><p>Would Crowley fade away not knowing? In his last moments, would he wonder if he was worth an angel’s love?</p><p>Still stroking the blazer in his lap, Aziraphale turned his blank stare to the empty driver’s seat. Would it stay empty forever? Aziraphale stilled, then cursed and the doors of the Bentley flew open so he could stumble into the street and shout at the Heavens. Lightning cracked the sky and the buildings were bathed in white light, their long shadows stretching across the pavement. So bright, it could’ve been daylight if not for the absence of heat. Only the cold, cold light of Heaven.</p><p>“This can’t be it,” he rasped when he believed his throat could no longer scream, eyes turned towards the stars. “I won’t accept that. This <em>can’t</em> be part of Your plan.”</p><p>When Crowley prayed to him again, hours later, for once they agreed on the Almighty. <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I don't know if this is working. Quiet as God. </em><em><sub>Never hears.</sub></em><em>” </em>And Aziraphale made a sound that was not a laugh, but he didn’t know what it was <em>supposed</em> to be. <em>“If it's working, the village is East of here from the looks of things.” </em>Aziraphale blinked, some of the haze receding as he stood in the middle of a town in Scotland in the middle of the night - more like morning, he realized, as the moon journeyed in its slow arc over the Earth - and listened.<em> “I can't shift into a snake anymore. </em><em><sub>So tired.</sub></em><em> They did some- no, No!”</em> </p><p>“Crowley?” Aziraphale took a shaky step forward, then spun about, coat billowing around him as his gaze darted from dark window to dark window and <em>listened</em>. This village was East of Strachan. Was he back there? Would he hear his screaming? Surely the salt circle couldn’t silence him. “Crowley! Crowley, where are you?”</p><p><em>“Angel Aziraphale... I'm okay, angel. I'm okay. </em><em><sub>It hurts.</sub> </em><em>I'm okay</em>.<em>”</em></p><p>“No, you’re not.” Aziraphale covered his face with his hands and forced his corporation to stop trembling. To stop losing control like he didn’t have control over it. “You’re not. You’ve never lied to me, Crowley, don’t start now.”</p><p>
  <em>“Aziraphale, my angel. I...”</em>
</p><p>The village was silent and dark once again, all except for the angel standing in the light of the Bentley’s head lamps, praying for a miracle.</p><p>Eventually, he got back in the car and closed all the doors. Then the Bentley rolled forward, driving into the night with the windows down as Aziraphale kept watch. For anything out of the ordinary, anything unusual. Something that could bring him closer to Crowley.</p><p>The only things he had to cling to were a direction, a blazer, and Crowley’s prayers.<em>“Angel Aziraphale, do you remember that earthquake in 1989? In San Francisco.”</em></p><p>“Of course,” he murmured. “Hard to forget.”</p><p><em>“That was the last time I was summoned. They were going to destroy me, and all I could think about was you.”</em> Aziraphale closed his eyes and could swear that he felt Crowley’s love envelop him, reaching for him with a thready, barely-there, <em>“Love you so much…” </em>but so potent, overcoming all the hurt, pain, exhaustion, fear so it was what Aziraphale would feel the most.</p><p>“Crowley…”</p><p><em>“Nothing's changed. I called you as soon as I could after the earthquake. It broke the circle so I escaped and I just needed to hear your voice. I asked you if you'd miss me. You didn't answer and it hurt so damn much…”</em> Aziraphale swallowed the guilt, a mouthful of sand that scraped all the way down.<em> “I know why you didn't say anything, but that doesn't make it... You still haven't said. </em><em><sub>Can't feel it like you.</sub></em><em>”</em></p><p>“I thought you knew.” Aziraphale clutched the blazer to his chest, Crowley’s honest agony brutal and the uncertainty clearer than he’d ever fathomed. “I couldn’t say- …no, I <em>wouldn’t</em> say… but dearest, you must know that-”</p><p><em>“I don't know if you can hear me. I don't know if you'll ever have a chance to say things to me because I don't know how to ask anymore. </em> <em><sub>Anything not to lose you.</sub></em> <em> I'm a coward, Aziraphale, when it comes to us.”</em></p><p>“...You’re braver than I.”</p><p><em>“Anyway, they, er,” </em>The uncertainty flared, guilt and self-deprecation coating the prayer like a penance Crowley did not have to give. One Aziraphale did not deserve, “<em>threatened me with holy water. </em><em><sub>Burns, burns...</sub> </em><em>Feels as bad as I remember. I think they’re-”</em></p><p>“Crowley. Don’t stop there. Crowley!”</p><p>Aziraphale braced himself against his seat and the Bentley’s door, bracing himself for screams of salvation, last words, the horrifying final prayers of someone not ready to meet their end. Unless Crowley spared him that. Left him with silence instead. A mercy. Gone quietly into the ether, no hope of return. Even if Hell would never give him another body were he to be discorporated, he’d still exist. Aziraphale could find him, could find a way to keep him. They could figure something out, together.</p><p>There was nothing he could do against holy water. There would be no more Crowley. Not ever.</p><p>He didn’t realize the Bentley had stopped moving. It waited alongside him to see if that was all Crowley had to say. All was quiet save for the engine’s gentle rumbling as it idled in the middle of a country road, and then, soft through the silence,</p><p><em>“Aziraphale, will you miss me? </em> <em><sub>Don't even think about me.</sub></em> <em>”</em></p><p>It was so thready, so faint. Like bottling smoke with how it wanted to disperse into the air, existing for a minute before vanishing. Running away. <em>When I’m off in the stars, I won’t even </em>think<em> about you!</em> He’d been trying to protect him then. Was still trying to protect him now when he didn’t…</p><p>When he didn’t think Aziraphale would <em>miss</em> him.</p><p>Aziraphale sagged in his seat, gaze fixed on the blazer and the cell phone still in his lap. <em>How could he ask me that?</em> the Aziraphale in 1989 had thought, shocked speechless, hurt that Crowley would question such a thing when it was so completely obvious that he’d miss him! How was he supposed to respond to such a thing in a way other than, “well, obviously, Crowley, I love you,” when they didn’t <em>say</em> such things? It wasn’t right, no, but the Aziraphale of 1989 didn’t know if it was right to love a demon either. He had his rationalizations - he was a creature on Earth and he was supposed to love all creatures on Earth, so that included Crowley - but they still didn’t speak of them. They had their dance, the little unspoken things and not-so-hidden glances. Aziraphale knew he lit up at the mere mention of Crowley, let alone when the demon walked into a room, he was so entirely obvious sometimes, how did he not <em>know</em>?</p><p>But the Aziraphale of today knew better.</p><p>The Aziraphale of today had faced the end of the world, walked through Hell and back, was cut off from Heaven, and had had a picnic with Crowley and dined at the Ritz. The Aziraphale of today was planning to buy a house in the country with the demon he loved.</p><p>He loved him. He loved him so much-</p><p>Aziraphale used Crowley’s mobile telephone to call the flat. It rang and rang and rang. Then, a lighthouse beacon guiding him from the stormy seas of his own despair, Crowley’s voice nonchalantly told him, “<em>Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.</em>”</p><p>“I love you,” burst out of Aziraphale.</p><p>He hung up and called again. “I <em>love</em> you.” And again. “I love <em>you</em>.” And once more. “I don’t know if I can make this any more stylish, my dear, but I’ll say it again and I’ll say it for eternity: <em>I love you</em>. You <em>ridiculous</em> demon. Don’t you <em>dare</em> tell me not to think of you. You will listen to these recordings and you <em>will</em> keep them and play them whenever you doubt these words I’m speaking to you now, as clearly as I possibly can. I. Love. You. <em>Everything</em> about you, including all your questions and I never want you to stop questioning things, but this is something you <em>never</em> need to question again. I love you.” A tear fell. “And I <em>miss</em> you.” Then another and another. “And I’m bringing you <em>home</em>.”</p><p>He hung up.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Glenmuick Church.</p><p>The Bentley’s clock told him it was nearing five in the morning when Crowley told him the name of the church in the village he was near. He used Crowley’s mobile to search for the church, shaking as the prayer left him hollowed out, scraped clean and empty. The church was in Ballater.</p><p>He had picked the wrong town.</p><p>It was a thirty minute drive, but Aziraphale made it in fifteen. The sleepy town nestled in the crux of tree-covered hills to the west and browning grassy knolls to the east was left to continue dreaming in peace as the dawn drew nearer. The Bentley knew to be silent as its tyres rolled to a stop in front of a park. The dark stone of the church overlooked it, ominous in the way it towered above the village.</p><p> <em>“Aziraphale, two of ‘em just left,” </em>Crowley had told him, then begged in his delirium,<em> “Untie me please.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. He laid his hand atop the bonnet and the head lamps dimmed and went dark. The street lamps in town were still lit, even as the sky started to lighten. They reflected off darkened storefront windows across the road, a glint of gold catching his eye. A royal crest was mounted on a white and blue building facing the church. Below it, worn, wooden lettering spelled out the store’s name. George Strachan Ltd. of Deeside, though it was missing some of its letters. With a snap they were restored, pristine and polished. </p><p>Then he stepped onto the grass and strode towards the church, eyes focused on the peak of the bell tower.</p><p>
  <em>“Something about more holy water? I’m dead. Used it all- s’gonna touch me, ripping me apart. I don't... hurt, it hurts, can’t take anymore. Kill me, just kill me…”</em>
</p><p>No one was there. He walked the perimeter of the church nonetheless, scanning the windows and doors for any sign of a break-in. Anything to let him know he’d been too late. But they were on bikes and he had the Bentley. It wouldn’t have gotten there after them. Aziraphale wouldn’t have allowed for it.</p><p>
  <em> “Glen... um... Glenmuick Church, they said. Should've led with that. I can't think. Poison. I'm not. Just want... You, you, you, you- I want... kill me or leave me alone, kill me, I’m trying, m’sorry, Aziraphale, m’sorry...”</em>
</p><p>Crowley was quiet during the drive to Ballater, and remained so as Aziraphale examined the church. They were out of holy water, so there was still time. They could discorporate him, perhaps, but absolute destruction… </p><p>Well, they wouldn’t come any closer than they already had.</p><p>As first light spread through the sky from beyond the eastern hilltops, an angel sat on a park bench before the imposing spires of Glenmuick church and he waited. The purple haze above started to fade and the grey stone of the church’s face was bathed in the early morning sunlight. A priest unlocked the doors to the church, sometime around five, but Aziraphale did not check his pocket watch to find out. He didn’t move. Not even when the priest caught sight of him and offered the stranger on the park bench at dawn a smile and wave.</p><p>As he waited, one more prayer whispered along his wings. <em>“Angel Aziraphale, I want an open concept downstairs. I explained it badly, but I want it. I want to be able to sprawl on a couch in the living room and still be able to see you baking in the kitchen. I'll pretend to be on my phone, but we'll both know I'd be watching you.</em></p><p>“<em>I want a lemon tree too.” </em>Crowley confessed, his take on his own last rites, perhaps, as a pair of cyclists came into view in the distance. <em>“Maybe some vegetables and herbs since you want to try cooking. I think I'd like to see you using ingredients I've grown. I want to try my hand at more flowers, too. Do you know I like primroses? All the things you know about me, and I don't know if that's one.”</em></p><p>He hadn’t known. He’d asked once if Crowley had ever thought about growing flowers along with his lovely plants and the demon had pivoted sharply, as if afraid of how utterly undemonic it would seem to admit he had any affinity for flowers, despite the fact Aziraphale knew Crowley liked to walk through St. James Park in the spring.</p><p>Aziraphale watched as the cyclists came closer, and Crowley continued, “<em>I think you know this one, but I should say it. I do read some things. But I like when you read aloud best. My favourite way to fall asleep is when you stroke my hair like it's okay that I'm holding onto you while you read aloud. Will you put poetry books on those built-ins? My favourite way to wake up is next to you. I know you don't sleep, but I'd like to wake up with you more.”</em></p><p>Every day, Aziraphale made the promise to himself, eyes darkening as the two humans rolled to a stop in front of the steps of the church. They had backpacks. Something larger than a thermos was likely hidden away inside.</p><p>“<em>A simple cottage sounds perfect. It does, and I’m not just saying that. Somewhere with big front windows. I know you don't swim ever since you embarrassed yourself with those bathing machines, but I'd like to be near the coast. You don't have to swim with me, but I'd like you to come to the beach. You can wear one of those old Victorian style swimsuits and lounge under a parasol with a cocktail and a book. And don't look like that at the idea of drinking a cocktail. It's a beach.”</em></p><p>Aziraphale didn’t make a face, how could he when Crowley was saying so much, so weak and staggered like a fading pulse. He was glad Crowley couldn’t see him, couldn’t be disappointed that no amount of levity would fill Aziraphale back up with enough light to roll his eyes, lips tugged up, and a ‘you wily, old serpent,’ at the ready for him, ‘I have indulged in the occasional cocktail. If you must know, I’m rather fond of… what is it called? Ah, yes. Sex on the beach,’ just to watch him writhe and wriggle and reply with, ‘ngk.’ But he wasn’t in the mood for such an exchange. Not as the two villains slipped in through the church’s front double doors. </p><p>Aziraphale stood. <em>“I haven't said so much, angel. There's so much I want with you. I'm just so scared to say it all when you've kicked it back at me so many times.” </em>There was a beat of hesitation, the angel paused mid-step, with one foot just barely brushing the grass. This was important.<em> “Don’t misunderstand, I do know why. I let you. We had to stay safe, but now that the rules are gone... I don't want to need too much. I don't want... I don't want you to regret me. Still waiting, I think, for you to say ‘Nevermind. My mistake.’ Y’know? Just terrified that one wrong move will remind you that you've picked a demon. But I've been summoned, right in front of you for once, and nothing I do could make it more obvious that I still am one and I'll never be anything else. </em><em><sub>Rather be your demon than Hell's, though.</sub></em></p><p>
  <em>“I... I know what it's like to lose you. I'd Fall from Heaven a thousand more times just so long as I never have to feel that way again. But I also never wanted you to have to suffer this. Never. This isn't... </em>
</p><p><em>“I don't know if you can hear me, but... They're going to kill me when they get back. I haven't made things easy on them, so they've had enough. And I can't move anymore. One of ‘em’s cutting into me right now, and I can’t... Can’t really feel it?” </em>Aziraphale strode across the grass towards the church.<em> “I should feel blessed iron…” </em>He stopped in front of the wide, wooden doors.<em> “Um. Right, so... No switching faces this time, love. Got a rescue in you? </em><em><sub>Am I worth it? I'd like to be...</sub></em><em>”</em></p><p>Aziraphale tugged on his bowtie, then straightened out his waistcoat. </p><p>He snapped and the doors flew open. They banged against the walls, its echo crashing along the stone. His shadowed silhouette stretched down the center of the aisle, wings outstretched and spanning the width of the church, climbing towards the ceiling, over stone and stained glass windows. At the back of the church, by the font of holy water, two humans cowered as an angel’s wrath flooded the house of God.</p><p>
  <em>“Aziraphale... Whatever happens, I'm glad I know what it's like to love you in the open.”</em>
</p><p>“Where is he.” The Principality Aziraphale demanded.</p><p>Their mouths hung open, speechless in the face of an angel’s divine light as it absorbed all the warmth from the room. When they did not answer, the bell tower bellowed, its ominous toll cresting over the hills in every direction and the windows rattled. The plastic jugs they’d been filling with holy water burst and soaked the carpet at their feet. The woman screamed and the man cursed.</p><p>“Wh- who?” the man finally managed to ask.</p><p>Several unseeing eyes split the skin of Aziraphale’s corporation. “You know.”</p><p>There was a page in the book that mentioned not summoning demons in holy spaces lest they be destroyed immediately. This was something very different from a demon and, for them, far more terrifying as a result. There was no guidebook. </p><p>The leader of this occultist group, therefore, made a mistake. “That useless demon?”</p><p>The room grew colder. The light in all those eyes brighter. Aziraphale was suddenly in front of him and touching a finger to the center of the man’s forehead. One finger. His eyes glazed over and he stumbled back. Aziraphale let him, his punishment dealt.</p><p>“<em>Edina</em>.” He turned to the woman now. “You will take me to the demon.”</p><p>She flicked her gaze from her fellow human - his eyes were still glazed over, empty, like his entire mind was just gone - to the whatever-it-was before her. It knew her name. The demon didn’t even know her name. They’d been careful, done everything right. <em>Why</em> tried to come out, “o-okay” did.</p><p>Her human companion, the leader, was left behind. He’d be found by the priest, who would call for a doctor. Eventually he’d recover enough to be coherent - aware - but he wouldn’t know his own name. He wouldn’t remember the life he’d led up to that point. Whoever he’d been was lifted from the world like a stain, and all his knowledge of the occult wiped with it. </p><p>Aziraphale did not kill people, so he did the next best thing.</p><p>The Bentley took them both down the road, Aziraphale in the passenger seat and the woman in the back. It followed her directions out of the village and into the hills, to the path Crowley had seen from his window. Both bikes had been left behind at the church. They wouldn’t be needed.</p><p>A small, stone cottage came into view, the grass around it yellowing and patchy and overgrown with brown shrubs twisting and twining in their path. They moved for the Bentley, not a scratch from their bristles to touch it. Aziraphale’s gaze hardened as he stared at the prison, Crowley’s essence still masked, but he could see the edges of it. Of what he needed to peel away. There was clearly some kind of power surrounding the cottage.</p><p>He got out of the car when the Bentley stopped, strode up to where he sensed the salt and iron line and scraped it with the side of his brogue. The power sizzled and vanished, but there was more beyond the front door.</p><p>Before entering the cottage, Aziraphale turned and beckoned for the woman to exit the vehicle. She did, standing stiff by its side. He considered her for a moment, considered the aura of death that surrounded her, her companion, and the cottage itself. There had been five captors, Crowley had told him. Somehow only three remained. His demon had bit one; a second must have been disposed of somehow as well. So only one in the cottage. Aziraphale sighed, a disappointed sound - disappointed in her and her choices - then snapped.</p><p>She vanished, the angel not cruel enough to leave her wandering in the hills without a memory of who she’d been, but he sent her somewhere far, where she’d be found and tended to just the same as her leader. No longer Edina, but someone else entirely. Perhaps someone who would use her second chance to make better choices.</p><p>The cottage door opened and Aziraphale stepped inside.</p><p>There was a man in the cottage’s sparse kitchen and pieces of his demon on a table. All the lights went out and the man jumped, whatever he’d been saying choked out of him as he realized this thing that had entered was neither of his acquaintances. “What the fu-”</p><p>His eyes took on the same glassy look as the others before him as he sank to his knees. Aziraphale took one look at his blood-stained hands and decided he would stay here. He still had a bike. Maybe one day he’d learn to use it again.</p><p>With the villains vanquished, Aziraphale hurried to the other salt line and with a snap it was gone. No more salt, no more iron. He threw open the door it had been guarding and he snuffed out his heavenly light lest it sting the injured demon inside. </p><p>Crowley had been left in the dark, in the dirt, body battered and bleeding and bound.</p><p>Aziraphale knelt at his side, called his name as his hands fluttered - hesitating over the wounds when there were so many blistering, he didn’t know where to start. His beautiful black wings were out, clumps of feathers missing, ones that remained singed. His darling serpent tattoo near his temple had been carved into, along with so much of his weakened corporation. His eyes were closed, lustrous eyes hidden away and cheeks smudged with tear tracks, dirt, and blood. Aziraphale cupped one with a shaking hand - he was so still, what if he was too late? Already discorporated? Already gone?</p><p>“Crowley? Crowley, I’m here. It’s me.” He stroked his thumb over a cut just beneath his eye, rubbing it and the long-dried tears away - too long, he’d taken too long - then snapped the ropes that bound him loose. Or tried to. The blessed things had to be untied by hand, left welts around his wrists, and surely his ankles too, as Aziraphale pried them away. “I’ve come to get you. I heard you, dearest. You’re so clever. Praying to me. You did so well.”</p><p>There was a quiver, a sharp breath rattling Crowley’s chest as the last holy artefact holding him hostage was removed. The constant stabbing sensation all along his skin was gone, but the dirty smell of burning and blood made a terrified part of his mind worry he’d ended up discorporated and back in Hell. His wings vanished with a panicky rustle of feathers lest any demons fall upon weak prey before he registered a very familiar and far less Hellish scent. Soft hands he didn’t have to defend against. The quiver in the voice was less familiar, but close enough for him to know who was speaking. Who was there for him. “Azrrfll?”</p><p>Relief crashed into him, the whiplash of it punching a sound out of him that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a laugh. “Oh, yes, my dear. I’m here,” he said again, pressing his lips to his hairline, the lovely, soft locks now matted with sweat and dirt and more blood. This place wasn’t fit for Crowley to stay in a second longer, not on the dirt floor of his cage. “I’m going to move you now, Crowley, but I’ll be so gentle, you won’t feel a thing.”</p><p>A raspy “ngk” answered him as Aziraphale carefully bundled Crowley in his arms, lifting him from the floor with ease. He tucked his head against his shoulder as he carried him out of the room, pausing only when he caught sight of the kitchen again and the mess the humans made of Crowley’s blood, scales, and feathers. Those couldn’t be left behind. He’d have to come back and clean the entire cottage…</p><p>His gaze fell on the dazed man still on the floor, then he miracled all the proper cleaning supplies and a box of matches. “You will scrub this cottage clean of any trace of him, and you will burn the remains. You will not leave until that is done.”</p><p>The man staggered to his feet and began to wipe down the surfaces, satisfying the angel enough to leave him to it and carry Crowley to the car. A blanket appeared on the backseat, to protect the leather and to provide something soft for the demon to rest upon as he was laid across it. Aziraphale slipped into the passenger’s seat, half-turned to keep an eye on Crowley, to keep one hand on him at all times, as the Bentley’s engine rumbled to life.</p><p>As they headed through the grass, back to the old country road, Aziraphale watched as the cottage faded into the hills, hidden from view but the memory of it eternally branded beside a note and a thermos.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>Aziraphale at his sexiest and his worst this whole Ch, just back and forth. I love him, and I'm so glad he's got his demon 🥰</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>I must say, it did not feel sexy while writing it xD Where last chapter took Syl one night, this chapter took me... one month? Yeah... decidedly not sexy, though I am happy with how it turned out! And glad that Syl enjoyed the line "drive" so much. </p><p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>SO MUCH</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>Chapter 5 will be out on Sunday! Though it may be late Sunday afternoon/evening, but it will still be Sunday somewhere, hopefully.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An angel's patience is rewarded, and a demon discovers the true depths of his heart.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>And so we finally reach the comfort part of our hurt/comfort 😇💖🐍</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>Yay comfort~ 😇💖🐍</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>Present Day</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Scotland</em> </b>
</p><p>A room at an inn in Blairgowrie miraculously came available, and didn’t require them to wait until 3pm for check-in. It had a double bed, an ensuite, and a decorative tea cart laden with all the fixings for a proper cup of tea or hot cocoa. No one questioned the man-shaped being carrying another man-shaped being into the inn, and they certainly didn’t think twice about how the one being carried looked to have been beaten within an inch of his immortal life.</p><p>Aziraphale laid Crowley down on the soft duvet of their warm, cream-coloured room and snapped additional light above them to assess the extent of his injuries. He wanted to get him home, back to the flat, but didn’t trust himself to miracle both of them and the Bentley all the way back to Mayfair, and the nine hour drive would be too taxing on him in this state. No, it was for the best that Aziraphale tend to him first, then go from there. </p><p>He started with the serpent tattoo - well, actually he started by miracling his corporation clean. It wouldn’t have the same effect as a warm, soothing bath would or a luxurious shower, but Aziraphale wanted Crowley at his most comfortable. At least, as comfortable as he could possibly get given the situation.</p><p>The skin beneath his tattoo knitted together, seamless and whole once more. With a wave of his hand over his side and chest, shaking too much when he tried to touch him there, not wanting to cause him more pain, both gashes were sealed and the skin soothed from its raw, reddened state. He peeled away his tattered shirt in search of any other lesions on his torso, then skimmed over his arm to will that wound healed as well. Aziraphale hummed soothingly when Crowley made a hoarse sound, touching him where he’d already been healed to ground him. Steady him.</p><p>Crowley’s eyes opened slowly, pausing halfway and still golden corner to corner. The utter terror in them faded when he focused on Aziraphale. “Nngel...”</p><p>“There you are,” he murmured, control slipping as his heart clenched at the sight of his eyes. The last time he’d seen them had been from the floor of his bookshop - panic-stricken. Aziraphale stroked his cheek with one hand, the other gingerly lifting one of his wrists to his lips. When they touched the torn, burned skin, a cooling sensation swept up through his palm into each of his fingers as he was healed. “Hello, dearest.”</p><p>“Azrfl...” Crowley tipped into the soft strokes, still dazed with blood-loss affecting his corporation as much as any human body. He could also feel the traces of the holy weapons in the remaining wounds, but it was nothing compared to what it had been. He was at least safe, wherever they were, and he felt whole again. Connected to his serpentine form once more. And to his angel by more than just one-sided, “Prayersss?” </p><p>“I heard them.” Aziraphale let his lips linger at each of Crowley’s fingertips, then reached for his other wrist and soothed the burns from being bound by holy rope there, too. “Now hush, my dear, don’t strain yourself. I’ll take care of you. You rest now.”</p><p>Healing his leg was a bit tricky, but Aziraphale hoped the scales were repaired as the scrape on his leg vanished. Once his skin was unblemished, a set of black cotton pyjamas were miracled onto the bed, and Aziraphale carefully coaxed Crowley into sitting up so he could button him into the top. The bottoms he miracled when he couldn’t get Crowley out of his denims without one anyway. Not without a fair amount of shimmying. A thick pair of Heaven’s Dress tartan socks also miraculously covered his feet, unobtrusive and unnoticed.</p><p>“Can you bring your wings out, darling?” he asked, stroking a hand down his back, nudging him to lie on his stomach. “I saw them earlier. I know they’re in quite a state, but I understand if you don’t feel up to it.”</p><p>Crowley wanted to not have wings or limbs at all for a little while, but found it difficult to refuse Aziraphale on a normal day. This one was impossible, a thought and a little effort besides making the damaged wings reappear. He folded his arms, cheek pillowed on a fist in his effort to keep Aziraphale in sight. He didn't want to lose track of him. “They...” He swallowed, exerting some energy on a miracle to make his mouth feel less gammy and taste less like blood and dirt. “They ssstill...” Hurt, but he didn't want to say it. He'd already spilled so much onto him. </p><p>But he didn’t have to say it. Their wings were the bridge between their physical corporations and what angels and demons were beyond their bodies, any aches in them felt deeper than mortal wounds. Though he’d seen them before, in the cottage, they’d vanished before he could get a good look, Crowley hiding them away like protecting a vulnerable underbelly. </p><p>Aziraphale’s lip began to quiver, but he felt Crowley’s eyes tracking him, so he blinked quickly and pushed it down to focus on doing what he could. He could heal the charred flesh between the feathers and where they’d been ripped from him. The gorgeous black wings could do with a proper preening, but Aziraphale would wait until they were at Crowley’s flat in Mayfair, not wanting to push him too much when he was still so sensitive and dazed. Working methodically, his fingers parted feathers and pressed in at the root, kneaded the space where they met his back through his clothes and cringing as he removed the feathers that were damaged beyond repair. He could only heal so much of a demon’s wings. Even his demon's. </p><p>“How’s that?” he managed to ask past the lump in his throat, carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Is that better?”</p><p>“Mmhm...” His eyes had closed at some point and he didn't bother to open them, pushing into the touch. Scales were starting to break out across his skin, his essence desperate to reconnect with the serpent, to make sure it was still him and he was still it. “Need... t'be a sssnake for a bit.”</p><p>“Oh. Well, of course, my dear. Whatever you need,” Aziraphale encouraged, stroking through his hair one last time before pulling back, giving him the space to coil up.</p><p>Crowley wanted his touch, but didn't have the words. He didn't have much of anything in the moments it took to trade skin for scales, the shift taking more effort than normal despite his very soul's eagerness. He could only taste his own relief the first time he flicked out his forked tongue, relief and a lingering exhaustion. And the worry from the being beside him. Even as exhausted as he was, he couldn't stand that. He didn't want Aziraphale to go around worrying about him. So Crowley coiled close to him, the top of his head bunting Aziraphale’s thigh. “Sss'better.”</p><p>Aziraphale touched two fingers to the sleek, black scales, petting along the length of him. “No need to wiggle so much, my dear. You need to rest,” he told him, though couldn’t deny the warmth the affectionate gesture inspired. He wasn’t a large snake at the moment, though not terribly tiny either. A good size to fit on Aziraphale’s lap perhaps, if he were coiled up just so. “Perhaps I can take you home like this…”</p><p>“Yesss.” Contented hiss spilling out, Crowley looped closer, pressed himself more fully against the warmth of his leg. Every instinct wanted to be as close as it was possible to be, and he was too tired to be embarrassed by the needy way his chin rubbed against Aziraphale’s trousers or the way his tongue flicked out again and again just to coat it with his angel's scent. Not dirt, not blood, not burnt feathers, torn skin, ozone - just soft, warm angel, old books, vanilla, and leather. Safety. “Ngk.”</p><p>An ache rippled through the angel, so much so that he couldn’t even bring himself to tut at Crowley for blatantly disregarding his request not to wiggle. Could he really blame him? After everything Crowley endured, a reminder that he wasn’t still alone in that dreadful place was hardly something to deprive him of. Aziraphale shucked off his coat and bent down to unlace his shoes, setting both aside before he gathered up Crowley’s coils, the scales slipping through his palms as he lifted him up from the bed. He adjusted so he was sat propped up against the headboard, then guided the serpent so he could properly drape himself against Aziraphale’s shoulders and chest.</p><p>Crowley wound around him like a loose scarf, every inch of him finding familiar buttons, velvet fabric, a tartan bowtie when he slid against the underside of Aziraphale’s chin. He didn't move nearly as fast as he normally would've - not as easy to shoo away if he was fast - but he was settled soon enough. There were a dozen aches still to contend with, the holy wounds going so much deeper than his skin and scales. He needed time and sleep. He wanted his angel. He nestled his chin in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, soaking in his warmth and a sense of comfort he'd only been able to dream of in 1989. Before he knew it, he fell into a much needed sleep. </p><p>“That’s it, my dear heart,” Aziraphale whispered, petting the scales that were within his reach while Crowley slept. “Sleep and dream of whatever it is you like best.”</p><p>He miracled the tea cart close, with a cup of steaming cocoa ready for him to sip at as he gave both he and Crowley a moment to simply be. Just the two of them. He’d eventually miracle the cup clean and straighten out the duvet. He’d let Crowley continue his nap while he carried the snake out to the Bentley, and pray that he stayed asleep for the entire drive back. The Bentley would get them back to the flat in Mayfair in good time, and it would not be noticed by police this time around. </p><p>Then Aziraphale would tuck Crowley into his luxurious bed and he’d wait. While he waited, he would find that Crowley was missing one of his fangs and he’d heal the gaping wound it left behind. He’d tidy the flat from the disarray he’d left it in, notes and frantic scribbles, and angel blood on the concrete floors. Then he’d make some telephone calls, do some investigative work to see if there were any other copies of Crowley’s book out there, but he wouldn’t leave Crowley’s side. He wouldn’t dare, not until golden eyes would cast their light on him like a sunrise cresting the horizon. Aziraphale would stay until Crowley forced him to go.</p><p>Yes, all of that would happen in due time, but for the moment, an angel kept watch over a demon in their hotel room while the world outside kept turning.</p><p> </p><hr/>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em> <b>A Week Later</b> </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> <b>Mayfair</b> </em>
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>Consciousness took its time returning. Before the Apocanot, weeks, months, or even decades weren't uncommon lengths of sleep for him. There was something nice about going into a truly deep sleep, finding that dark dreamless space and zoning out. Disappearing. Not worrying or stressed, but gone and able to come back whenever he wanted. The waking up bit wasn't really that bad either, that languid, slow return of sensation. He never knew if he was going to come back with or without limbs after a real, deep sleep. He shifted a little, felt fingers curl into a blanket, legs shift beneath covers. Limbs, then. </p><p>Something nearby shifted, the surface beneath him - mattress? Mattress - dipping a little. A deep breath wafted more awareness in, the familiar scent of Aziraphale making him sigh in relief or contentment. Maybe both. He could hear rustling too, taking a moment to match that sound to a page turning. That wasn't so familiar after a deep sleep. He'd always awakened alone after those. He usually awoke alone after a single night of sleep, for that matter. His angel barely stayed that long when Crowley managed to get him into bed for sleep at all. At least as far as he was aware. </p><p>More details trickled into his waking mind, memories drifting in alongside awareness. Being whisked away from the bookshop and... however long he'd been in that cottage, trapped and hurting. Time had started to run together during what he now knew had definitely been him almost dying. Slow discorporation - not his preferred way to go, it turned out. He almost envied Ligur and the two humans he'd poisoned. </p><p>Oh. He moved his tongue, felt one fang and... And the other. Thank Someone. He focused a little, felt his wings on another plane. Still tender in spots and he could <em>feel</em> their disarray, but he no longer felt as if his soul was being sucked out of his body. He felt very much like himself.</p><p>And very much humiliated by some - <em>most</em> - of those prayers. Particularly that last one. Oh, <em>fuck</em>. Why couldn't he have just died quietly? </p><p>As tempted as he was to just go back to sleep, it had been a bit since he'd last heard a rustling page. Longer than it normally took Aziraphale to read something. He must be worried or... Or eager to leave, and Crowley couldn't do that to his angel, as much as he wanted to hide. </p><p>He let his eyes open, blinking a few times to adjust to the light, and to affirm that Aziraphale was indeed there. Sitting in bed beside him, worn waistcoat and all buttoned as neatly as ever and books scattered around him. There were more on a side table which hadn't been there the last time he'd been in his own bedroom in Mayfair, and Crowley was pretty sure there'd be more books on other surfaces if he did a little more looking.</p><p>He didn't want to look anywhere but up at his angel. Embarrassment aside, there really was nothing better than waking up to find him so close. “Having yourself a field trip, angel?” </p><p>“More of an extended stay, I should think,” Aziraphale replied, tone light and airy, though not at all as untroubled as he might have intended to portray, watching Crowley from over the tops of his reading glasses. “How are you feeling, my dear?”</p><p>“Less near death than I was last time I woke up somewhere. So better, I think.”</p><p>“Ah.” He didn’t look any more untroubled. “Well, that’s… that’s what we want to hear, I suppose. I healed every visible injury I could find on your corporation, and made a decent attempt at fixing up your wings, but a proper preening should be in order once you’re further on the mend. Are you in any pain now?” He set aside his book, devoting his full attention to the demon, certain he would find the right page when he was ready to pick it up again, though he hadn’t been paying that much attention to it anyway, far too focused on the demon even while he slept.</p><p>Sighing, Crowley pushed himself up to sit. “No, m'fine.” He looked at his hand, the holy burns and cuts gone. No pain when he flexed it. “How long's it been?” </p><p>“Oh, only a week. Not too long considering.” Aziraphale reached towards him, aborting the gesture and trying again twice before he tutted at his own ridiculousness and managed to lay his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t push yourself, Crowley. There’s no need to rush.”</p><p>“It's been a week. Sitting up isn't the worst thing ever.” The hesitation in the touch made him fidget, though, fingers plucking at the sheets pooled at his waist. Worse than embarrassment was dread. He'd said too much. He'd been too much. “I'm <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“It’s alright if you’re not.” Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to Crowley’s lap, then his hand slipped from his shoulder to clasp his fidgety fingers. “I know you don’t have much reason to trust me, and rightfully so, but I promise I won’t let any harm come to you. It’s safe for you to rest now.”</p><p>Crowley stared at him, his own panicky thoughts abruptly derailed and fingers flexing under the unexpected contact. “Aziraphale, you are the <em>only </em>being I trust anywhere.”</p><p>“Well… I might be wrongly deserving of that.” Aziraphale stroked over his knuckles, cradling his hand in both of his. “I can understand you having faith in me, my dear. You wouldn’t have been able to pray to me if you didn’t, which is… more dear to me than you can know. I <em>treasure</em> that, Crowley.” He moved Crowley’s hand, so he could press his palm over his heart in earnest. “But trust requires evidence… proof of one’s feelings and intentions… and it appears I haven’t given you much of that at all, regardless of what I may have intended. I’m sorry, Crowley.”</p><p>“Wuh- I- Mnguh, ngk...” He didn't know what to do with that, not entirely sure where it was coming from. He stared at his hand, their hands over Aziraphale’s heart, and fumbled. He was barely awake enough for this somehow. “You don't have- There’s nothing- Why the <em>Heaven</em> are you apologizing to me?” </p><p>Aziraphale’s grip tightened a moment, going still as his gaze turned inward, then he was patting the back of Crowley’s hand and offering him a smile. “Oh, I think I might have spent too much time steeping in my own thoughts this past week. Don’t mind me, dear boy. Now, speaking of steeping, can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps? Hence the steeping. I wouldn’t recommend alcohol at this time, though perhaps you might convince me to slip a little something in your tea if you simply can’t do without it. A hot toddy, perhaps?”</p><p>Crowley knew him too well to think that was the end of that, but he didn't know how to start getting into it. It seemed like it was the sort of thing that could get very sticky very quickly. “Yeah. Could do with a hot toddy if that's the only way you're gonna let me get some alcohol.”</p><p>“I only want to avoid putting more strain on your corporation, my dear. Though I suppose after a week and a nap, it wouldn’t hurt… We’ll start with the tea and go from there.” Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips and brushed a light kiss to the back before releasing him. “Sit tight, darling.”</p><p>“Mnnyeah.” The little kiss was something of a relief, Crowley rubbing his thumb over the spot as if he could brand the affection into his skin. “You- Are you alright?” </p><p>“Of course. Absolutely tickety-boo.” He rose from the bed and straightened out his waistcoat and bowtie, smile softening as he looked Crowley over from the new angle, bedhead fluffed and no miracles to style it yet, eyes still full yellow without the concentration devoted to them. “I was worried about you, but I’m very glad you’re awake now. You’ll have to put up with a bit of fussing though, I’m afraid. A side effect of the worry, you see.”</p><p>He made a weak sound of protest, not willing to work up a better bout when he was still wary of his prayers. The whole situation was a conversation waiting to happen. “There's some... twinges in my wings I can still feel, but I'm not... I'm nowhere near where I was. Alright?” </p><p>Aziraphale blinked and he was in a dimly lit room with a dirt floor and Crowley’s final confession reverberating through his very being as he looked down at the tortured fragments of his demon’s corporation. He blinked again and that same demon was looking at him, eyes alert, hair fluffed and tousled, in his comfiest pyjamas and a nest of blankets. Safe, warm, and so entirely <em>loved</em>. His heart swelled up with the feeling, his corporation full of a confusing tangle of relief, joy, fear, and regret, but at the center of it all was a bright, burning love that he didn’t want to keep contained. Not anymore.</p><p>But first, tea. Allowing his corporation to exhale, Aziraphale let his gaze linger in gratitude. “Alright,” he accepted, letting the ‘thank you’ go unspoken to spare Crowley from that particular humiliation as he left the room. </p><p>Crowley’s hunched shoulders relaxed, but tension was still coiled tight in his gut. His normally limber, suggestible spine felt like it could snap under any unsure turns, and his stomach (or something down there, his gallbladder, maybe? What did that even do?) felt like it was churning and angering a bunch of wasps. He'd worried Aziraphale. Worse, he'd made him feel untrustworthy. </p><p>Between the two of them, there was one who knew how to tell a good lie and then there was Aziraphale. Of course he was trustworthy and worthy of having faith in. Crowley had more faith in Aziraphale than he did in God, frankly. </p><p>No, if anyone was meant to be apologizing it wasn't Aziraphale. None of what had happened had been his fault. It was all Crowley’s because, even near death, he hadn't told him everything. He deserved to know everything after that, and it was... Well, he was still a coward. It was easier to think about his ties to summoning and to the book and to his own failures than it was to think about the things he'd shared in prayer. That last one hung especially heavy, so many others muddled. He wasn't entirely sure what all he'd said in them, especially when time had started to blur and his mind had begun to slip. </p><p>A week it may have been, but it may as well have been hours ago for all the awareness Crowley had had in the meantime. The ghost of that holy water was still tearing at his essence, would probably be a new feature in his future nightmares. Like he didn't have enough.</p><p>Sighing, ignoring the instructions to sit tight, Crowley pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. The Heaven's Dress pattern on thick socks made him sigh again, more fondly exasperated and less defeated. He left them, would plead ignorance of them if he had to, but he liked having something so fully Aziraphale on. He stepped out of his bedroom, giving his plants a passive once-over before walking into his office. A glance at the windows was soothing, the familiar view and sun a relief after dealing with nothing but a broken pane of glass and unknown hills. Unfortunately, he could also feel a familiar pulse of evil. </p><p>Frown tugging at his lips, threatening to pull into a pout, Crowley went to his desk and opened the ancient book to get his list. May as well add nineteen to the worn page. He'd need a new one after this. When twenty inevitably happened, anyway. </p><p>He plucked his usual red pen out of nowhere, jotted down a <em>19</em> and the year before he noticed something else red. A blinking <em>4</em> on his ansaphone. </p><p>Right. 'Course. Probably Aziraphale calling him from the bookshop before that first prayer had been sent. No matter how many times he'd explained recorded answering machines, his angel very stubbornly seemed to forget. Or not understand when it was him versus when it was a machine. So it'd probably be good for a lark, something to rib him for when the heaviness of their impending conversation got to be too much. He reached over and hit play, all thoughts disappearing at that first burst of <em>“I love you.”</em></p><p>And then it happened again and again, the emphasis different each time. Crowley’s ears were ringing when the fourth message started, more than those three words spilling out and mostly lost to him as he walked around the desk to grab the machine. He was going to carry it back to his throne and sit. </p><p>He sat on the floor and hit play again, the machine in his lap and his head pressed firmly against the sturdy desk. The first thing it played this second go-around was the expected jumble, Aziraphale’s exasperated frustration stealing a wet gasp of a laugh from him. He was ridiculously sweet. </p><p>
  <em>“We do fall into old patterns at times when we’re feeling at our most vulnerable.”</em>
</p><p>Yes, they did. They most certainly did. Crowley was certainly feeling vulnerable, even when the machine cut the silly message off mid-stream. He'd put it with the others, all the times Aziraphale had called and left ridiculous messages compiled on a cassette he kept safe just for himself. </p><p>When the declarations of love started again, he had to close his eyes tightly. </p><p>
  <em>“I love you.</em>
</p><p><em>“I</em> love <em>you.</em></p><p><em>“I love </em>you.</p><p><em>“I don’t know if I can make this any more stylish, my dear, but I’ll say it again and I’ll say it for eternity:</em> I love you. <em>You</em> ridiculous <em>demon. Don’t you</em> dare <em>tell me not to think of you. You will listen to these recordings and you</em> will <em>keep them and play them whenever you doubt these words I’m speaking to you now, as clearly as I possibly can. I. Love. You.</em> Everything <em>about you, including all your questions and I never want you to stop questioning things, but this is something you</em> never <em>need to question again. I love you. And I</em> miss <em>you. And I’m bringing you </em>home<em>.”</em></p><p>Crowley couldn't draw in a full breath, his chest cavity feeling constricted. A snake being squeezed. Aziraphale loved him. Somehow, some way, his angel loved him. <em>Him</em>. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate loved the Serpent of Eden. He was loved and he couldn't breathe for it. He couldn't even remember that he didn't have to. </p><p>“Oh…”</p><p>Aziraphale’s soft gasp came from the doorway, two mugs clutched in his grasp as he took in the sight of him on the floor. His grip tightened on the cups, then miracled them to sit on the desk - contents included - so there were no distractions as he knelt by Crowley’s side. Slowly, but not hesitantly, he allowed himself to cup Crowley’s cheek as he searched his shocked gaze.</p><p>“My dear, are you alright?” he asked. “I hope that didn’t- well, I didn’t intend for you to hear it that way for the first time… I suppose I’d forgotten about your newfangled recording device.” Nevermind that it wasn’t new and Aziraphale knew it wasn’t new, but he had to say something to return a bit of the color to his corporation’s face. </p><p>Senseless sounds spilled in response, Crowley struggling to come up with anything to say in response. All he wanted was to press close and beg to hear it, to watch those familiar lips form such unfamiliar words. “How- ngk. How pathetic did I sound for you to even remember how to leave a message in the first place?” </p><p>Aziraphale swallowed, eyebrows knitting together as though he’d been wounded on Crowley’s behalf. “I wanted to hear your voice,” he confessed softly. “It was the only way I could, in that moment. And then I suppose I was… overcome. But you hardly sounded pathetic, darling. You were trying so hard…”</p><p>Crowley’s head turned in an attempt to hide against his palm. “Yeah, well, I fucked up. I <em>knew</em> I should've stayed underground. I just heard them out the window, and... It was a mistake. I... The- I made so many mistakes in there.”</p><p>Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “Dearest, you’re still here. You did what you could to ensure that.”</p><p>Crowley huffed. “Could've done better. I didn't know they had holy water until I tried to escape and found out they had <em>two</em> barriers. Bothered you way too much and-” </p><p>“You hardly bothered me enough,” he interrupted, both hands framing his face to keep him from hiding. “I had no idea where you were or when I’d find you or if your last prayer would be the last time I’d hear from you-” Aziraphale brushed that thought away focusing on staying present with Crowley in this moment, where he was still recovering, of course, but still his to hold and cherish. “They helped. Your prayers helped me find you, I don’t know how I would have without the vital information you managed to gain. You were in quite a traumatic situation, Crowley, and I won’t have you speak poorly of yourself for things you can only identify in hindsight.”</p><p>It didn't stop him from feeling poorly about himself. He hadn't wanted, well, to be too much and only a few of the prayers had even held anything useful. “I...” His hands abandoned the ansaphone to curl around Aziraphale's wrists. “How <em>did</em> you get there? I'm not sure if I hallucinated the Bentley or not.”</p><p>“I told it to take me to you. Well, in the direction I suspected you were in. I telephoned dear Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer for assistance in tracking you. They were unable to trace your energy signal, but they did help me find the town of Strachan, which was quite luckily very close to where you actually were. It was also a store, but it didn’t appear on any of the Google searching.” Aziraphale shifted, sitting beside him so he could coax Crowley to lean into him, to use him for support. With a snap, one of the hot toddies was in his hands and he pressed it into Crowley’s, encouraging him to hold the warm beverage. </p><p>“Mm. It's a good car.” He'd reward it soon, take it for a decent drive somewhere fast. Later, though, when he felt a little safer. At the moment, all Crowley wanted was to climb into Aziraphale’s lap, get more softness than just his side and more warmth than what was in his own hands. He stayed where he was and determinedly didn't press play on the ansaphone again. He even put it to the side. Keeping both hands wrapped around the mug, Crowley took a drink and let the alcohol burn down his throat and settle hotly in his belly. “Glenmuick Church...” he murmured, the heat not keeping the shiver at bay as he recalled lying in the door, perilously close to spilled holy water. It had been such a cold burn. “I don't remember the name of the town that's in.”</p><p>“Ballater.”</p><p>“Right. S'all... S'all runs together up there.” Crowley rubbed his thumb against the side of the mug, tension slithering up his spine. It settled tightly coiled in the nape of his neck, drew his limbs into as much a ball as he could get. “She was going to take one of my eyes. I dunno who spilled the holy water since I was trying to... Dunno what I was doing. S'not like I could get away. Didn't have anywhere to go, couldn't get myself to sink into the dirt. My wings were already so close to the barrier, and I was so cold. Holy water doesn't burn hot, and when it's added to a circle, it's like... Like a winter wind on your face but it's everywhere. Under your clothes and... Under the skin.” Into the very soul, though he didn't think he had to explain that to an angel and he didn't <em>want</em> to say it to Aziraphale. “Been a while since I killed anyone, but I bit two of them before they managed to... cut that off. What'd you, er, … the last three?”</p><p>Aziraphale's expression was unreadable, the expressive lines and eyes that revealed too much at times cold and still as he stared straight ahead at nothing. “They won't be bothering you again,” he answered him gravely, promised him. “They don't know who they are anymore.”</p><p>They wouldn't be causing any trouble, but someone else could. He could ignore that for the moment. Crowley reached up to carefully stroke his cheek, pushed some of his usual playfulness into his voice. “Figured it'd be something like that. They get the whole show? Eyes and all, and I missed it?” </p><p>“I couldn’t let them go. They knew too much. Had hurt you too much. And they weren’t repentant in the slightest. Only afraid. As afraid for their own destruction as they’d made you feel.” The ice in his eyes thawed as he turned into Crowley’s touch and looked at him. “I could have. It would have been easy.”</p><p>Oh. Sighing, Crowley gave in. He unfurled and shifted, giving Aziraphale a lapful of demon. “In the moment, it's always easy. It's the after that isn't, and it definitely wouldn't be for you.”</p><p>Surprise faded quickly, Aziraphale welcoming the weight of him as his hands settled at Crowley’s waist. “If it had been the only way to get to you, I would have. It would’ve been worth it. You’re worth that. And I’m sorry for the centuries spent making you feel like you weren’t, and for not thinking I should have told you the moment we were on our side-”</p><p>“Stop. That's- mng, just-” Hearing a <em>guilty </em>confession was probably going to feel much worse than a recorded one. “Look, I was barely even- Don't go around feeling guilty over doing what we had to. Don't think we - or the rest of the world - would even be around if you'd...” He waved a hand, trying to recall the words he'd used during their last conversation. “Gone gallivanting about with me. Six thousand years of that doesn't end with... Doesn't end easy. So don't- Whatever I sent you while I was in there- I was dying. You can't take it seriously.”</p><p>“Of course I’m going to take it seriously, Crowley. You were dying and you thought I didn’t love you- you didn’t think I’d <em>miss</em> you- Darling, I take that very seriously,” he insisted.</p><p>Crowley flinched. “Don't- Don't just- Don't say any of it if it's just out of guilt. It's not your fault I can't- Ngk. Fzjg. Just please don't do that to me.”</p><p>“It’s <em>not</em> out of guilt, stop saying that.” Aziraphale let go of him, wringing his hands instead. “Though I suppose I didn’t mean to tell you that much. Not right away, at least. Forget I’ve said anything. Let’s get you back to bed. You should still be resting.”</p><p>He wouldn't mind going back to bed, but took another drink instead of moving. The heat of it was as much a comfort as being near Aziraphale, even when he was fretting. Even when he was falling into old patterns. When they both were. Crowley took a testing step out of rhythm. “Dunno. The message was pretty clear on me keeping all that, so I don't think I'm supposed to be forgetting. And I'd really rather not anyway.”</p><p>“Well, I’d rather you didn’t either. The bit from the message, that is.” Aziraphale stopped his fidgeting and dropped his gaze, then peeked up at him through his lashes. “I meant it.”</p><p>Crowley couldn't feel what flickered in the air, but he did feel his own pulse skip. His angel was unfairly pretty. Tamping down his emotions was second nature, done quick and thoughtless. “Do I have to ask every time I want to hear it? That's going to get humiliating fast.”</p><p>“You do get embarrassed quite easily, my dear.”</p><p>“Ngk.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s lips quirked up a bit, not quite a smile, but still allowing the fondness to show as he leaned in to kiss him gently. “I love you, Crowley.”</p><p>It was very different watching him say it than it was hearing a recording. Not to undersell the recording, no. Something like that would've been impossible, as unlikely as getting Aziraphale to take a photograph with him. Before Armageddon't, there could've been nothing left behind for either side to point at as proof that they were more than enemies. Having something he could keep and play over and over again was monumental. </p><p>Having him say it in person was a wonder-of-the-world level of monumental. Yet Crowley’s ridiculous mouth only said, “Oh.”</p><p>With a sigh, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, tucking him in close. “I love you. I miss you every moment you aren’t with me, and I look forward to any chance to see you again.”</p><p>The mug returned to the desk, freeing Crowley’s hands so he could cling. That hollow space the holy water had been trying to reach was filled with something much warmer. “All you've ever had to do was ask me not to go.”</p><p>“It wasn’t always in my power. And it wouldn’t be fair to you, to ask you to choose between me and maintaining your status… your security with Hell. You know that.”</p><p>“S'not really a problem anymore,” Crowley reminded him. And it hadn't been for some time. “The only connection I've got to them now is that fucking book.”</p><p>“Right, and we also decided to move in with one another, so that… well, it would be harder to miss you if we lived in the same house, now wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale pointed out in return.</p><p>Crowley’s shoulders shifted, an equally noncommittal sound huffing out. It was true enough. “Get any further along with your organisation this week?” </p><p>Aziraphale stared at him for a beat, corporation going stiff. “Do you actually-” he started, but stopped himself and let his first impulse simmer, to soften it and his tone. “I haven't been to the bookshop all week, actually.”</p><p>Crowley pushed back, hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders as he stared for several beats. Puzzlement and denial battled in his gaze before he shook his head. “You can't... You've been here?” </p><p>“Yes. I would have asked permission, obviously, but you were asleep and I didn't want to leave you alone…”</p><p>So the piles of books scattered in his bedroom had been miracled over. Crowley had genuinely assumed Aziraphale had been splitting his time between the flat and the bookshop, and waking up beside him had just been chance. His hands slipped down, gaze falling as his fingers slid over the familiar waistcoat. Though worn in some places, the velvet was as soft as the corporation beneath. His soft guardian angel who loved him. Who <em>loved </em>him. “Would’ve tried to wake up sooner if I’d known. Kept you from steeping in your thoughts.”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “No, you needed to recover your strength. It was a long drive back and you were a snake for most of it, not to mention all the blessed healing you'd had to endure. Besides, I kept myself busy. I looked after you, made sure you were comfortable. I called Anathema and Newton to let them know you'd been safely retrieved from the hands of the villainous cult. I had to clean up the mess I'd made with my notes in your office. Then I called in some favours to some of my connections to ensure there were no other copies of your book out there. Just to be on the safe side of course. I hope you don't mind, I used your mobile telephone for that. And to call Sergeant Shadwell, to recruit him and Madame Tracy to comb the… What do you call them? Online forums? Well, they were tasked with finding digital copies and purging them. Of course, they will be compensated for their assistance.”</p><p>But that had only been a few hours each day out of seven. The rest of the time… “I suppose I did do a fair bit of steeping as well, yes. And I missed you. But your recovery still mattered more. I'd hardly want to put you at risk of discorporation from taxing your body to the point of exhaustion.”</p><p>“Mngh...” Crowley fussed with Aziraphale’s waistcoat the way he’d seen the angel do an uncountable number of times - careful tugs to smooth it out, straighten it. Fingers skimmed up to his bowtie to do the same, just an excuse to touch. “I try to get rid of the digital copies, corrupt the files to keep any of the curious from ever trying again. Every few years, they just spring back up. But I should’ve gotten all of the physical ones. There might be one in Hell, but I’ve been tracking them down and burning them ever since... I handed them out.”</p><p>“I assumed you had based off what you told me and your notes in the book itself, but I… well, I wanted to be certain on my end. For my own peace of mind.” Aziraphale let Crowley fuss, Adam’s apple bobbing as his fingertips brushed against his throat. “I didn’t know how else to protect you aside from watching over you as you slept. Even if it seemed a rather fruitless endeavor.”</p><p>“In <em>theory</em>, if you had a good enough hold of me, you’d come with me. The only warning I get before a summoning is that... Nyrgh. Going limp thing. There’s no control <em>at all</em>. And, well, you saw how fast it goes.” His shoulders jerked, fingers falling to fiddle with the top button of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “What irks me is this is what I wanted to talk to you about before I got yanked off in the first place. Never been around you when it happened, but if we were going to be living together, I figured you should know.”</p><p>“Yes, well… I suppose I knew it was a possibility.” Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands, massaging his fingers to keep him from worrying the worn buttons too much and to soothe them a bit. While there was no trace of the burn left on his skin, he still treated his hand with great care, tracing the lines of his palms in between rhythmic squeezes and pulls along the digits. “Though I didn’t know how many times you’d been summoned in the past.”</p><p>Crowley flicked his gaze up, quickly checking his expression before watching his fingers move over his own hand. It had been a week for Aziraphale, but only a few hours for him. Seeing his skin intact and feeling the touch as soothing rather than painful was a relief. And, well, perhaps it wasn’t much of a surprise that Aziraphale had known it was a possibility. It was ingrained in the popular culture and he had his occult books. “I’m not... I’m not in that bad a spot in the book. A names and Z names get picked up a lot more. It’s annoying and it’s humiliating and it’s... S’not anything I've ever wanted to talk about, angel.”</p><p>“Yes, I understand that it would be both of those things, but it’s also exceptionally dangerous. Which you obviously know firsthand. It doesn’t change anything about the way I see you though, Crowley. I don’t think less of you because you can be summoned. If anything I… I suppose I tried to use it to give some semblance of protection to you. Encouraging humans to arm themselves with protective talismans that had no effect on demons. Purposefully… misguiding them.” He appeared pained at the very thought. “But the threat of holy water was too great, so many used it in their exorcisms, my dear, I couldn’t risk… If someone had thought you were a human who’d been possessed, even a sprinkle… well, I don’t have to tell you what happens. But the point is, I wasn’t anymore open with you about this. So I understand why you didn’t talk about it.”</p><p>Oh, there had definitely been talismans held up at him like shields anytime he got out of a circle. Black tourmaline and fairy crosses were recurring objects, or fluorite. Sometimes, he’d played along just to encourage the myth since, well, he understood humanity as much as Aziraphale did. They were suggestible. “Clever angel.” Crowley rearranged until his side was pressed to Aziraphale’s front, cheek pillowed comfortably on his shoulder and his hand now the one caught for Crowley’s exploration. “What’d you do to stop that stupid Santanic Panic? Because it was spreading like...” His cheek rubbed against Aziraphale’s shoulder as he sought a simile. “Something that spreads insanely fast. And then all of a sudden it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t me. I was getting near-daily... ah, talking-to’s from Hell over it and couldn’t get in nearly enough meddling. Always thought you’d done <em>something</em>.”</p><p>“Oh…” While his intention had been for Crowley to know - or at least eventually figure it out - the past week had certainly made him question everything, and questions weren’t necessarily Aziraphale’s forte. “I connected with a federal agent in the states who was leading the investigation into the legitimacy of the claims and spent several months working with him. I also encouraged people to question the lack of corroborative evidence for these cults and demons running rampant. I’m certain it would have run its course eventually, but I… well, I didn’t have any time to waste, and it certainly didn’t hurt to expedite the process, as it were.”</p><p>There was a crack in the tightly bound control of Crowley’s emotions. He'd thought Aziraphale had done something, but he hadn't been able to prove it. He hadn't had time to follow him or pester him as he'd so long been wont to do. He'd been struggling, in very real danger of not being allowed back up, and suddenly things on Earth had slowed. No fresh countries were picking up the panic and the ones which had spearheaded it were starting to draw back the curtain. He remembered getting exceptionally drunk in the back of the bookshop and passing out on the couch. Not the first time and not the last, but one of very few where he'd let himself out instead of being politely dismissed. </p><p>They'd <em>both </em>been celebrating. </p><p>Both mugs ended up in his hands and he pushed Aziraphale’s at him. “Summoning is my fault. Me and Satan, but no one's going to give Hellish punishment to Satan. I put in some report that humans were building their false idol statues and using things like sacrifices to summon them, and somehow it got around. And he thought it'd be... <em>fun</em> to watch demons get jerked around. And I was the Earth demon, so guess whose job it was to spread those early scrolls? There were only a few rules - make an enclosure with virgin blood, draw our symbol, have a spell and a deal in mind.</p><p>“It's humans who made it bigger and grander with all the extra rules and knowledge, and Satan was so <em>amused</em> by it all, I had to put a book together when those started to replace scrolls. I had to make the copies. I had to distribute them. I was going to burn them all, but... It didn't work out. When the panic started in earnest, when fewer demons were coming back from summonings, they blamed me. So.” Their mugs clinked together. “You saved me from a lot more than just being replaced, angel. Always been good at your job, though.”</p><p>“Oh… oh, dearest, my job had nothing to do with it.” He set his mug aside so he could frame Crowley’s face in both hands as he looked into his luminous eyes, the colour of honey and sweeter than all ambrosia. “It was love. If I could spare you from being destroyed at the hands or humanity or Hell, I… I tried. I wanted you safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, my dear. I know you know this, that you’ve wanted the same for me, but I feel it must be said all the same.”</p><p>“I... Ngk.” There were things he could and had said plenty of time to excuse every single one of his rescues - namely how annoying it would’ve been for them both had he been discorporated - but he sighed instead of voicing any of it just then. He'd been loved, even then. “Still want to make sure you stay safe, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale gently thumbed over his cheekbones, then drew him close to press a sweet kiss to his lips. He knew. He knew it was the stuff of Crowley’s nightmares, that the bookshop burned and an angel with it and Crowley couldn’t have saved him.</p><p>“You do.” He nuzzled their brows together as he broke the kiss. “You always have. Now it’s my turn, sweet. This is all part of the saving. Including saving you from sitting on the floor. Come now, you have several pieces of perfectly respectable furniture.”</p><p>He didn’t protest the endearment, though it turned his cheeks an embarrassing shade of pink he decided to ignore. “‘Several’ and ‘respectable’ are pretty generous words. Besides, I’m sitting more on you than the floor.” </p><p>Aziraphale sighed, hands falling to Crowley’s hips. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t be opposed to offering me a bit of a rescue from the floor? You can settle right back atop me once we’ve relocated, if you’re so inclined.”</p><p>Crowley grinned. “Angel, I’m trying really hard to get you to pick me up. This is a one-off if I can help it, so I’m milking it for all it’s worth.”</p><p>“Oh, as if this will be the only occasion I have for whisking you up into my arms.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but nudged Crowley off his lap so that he could stand and straighten himself out. Then he bent down, one arm beneath his thighs and the other bracing Crowley’s back as he lifted him up. “Is it alright that we leave your telephone recording box on the floor?” he asked, already snapping their mugs to Crowley’s bedside tables to wait for them.</p><p>“An ansaphone, angel, and it should be fine. S'not like it vibrates when anyone leaves a message.” He was so casually strong, Crowley well-aware of the angelic muscle tucked into a plush corporation, but he genuinely couldn't recall a time when he'd felt threatened by it. Even that first slither up a wall, he hadn't expected to be attacked. It simply wasn't part of him, this very literal embodiment of a guardian angel. “Kinda like you doing some whisking, for the record. Worth the eyeroll.”</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale chuckled, carrying him through the flat and focusing on the warm, cognizant weight of him in his arms. No longer limp and lifeless. He clutched Crowley closer, almost unwilling to place him back in bed, encouraged only by the fact that the demon still wanted him near.</p><p>Crowley didn't miss that, couldn't, and understood it very well. When Aziraphale did set him on his side of the bed, he looped his arms around his neck. “Y'know the only bad thing about saving you from anything was having to leave after. We'd go for a meal or have drinks, yeah, but there was still a point where I'd have to go. Then I'd just wonder what you were going to get yourself into next. And whether it was going to be your stomach or that big heart of yours that put you in trouble. I just had to hope I could get to you in time, whatever it was. </p><p>“You've got all the advantages here, Aziraphale.” There were too many cracks in the lid over Crowley’s feelings, but he couldn't make himself seal them. Not when he was trying to reassure him. “Neither of us are going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm going to be as long as you want me.”</p><p>Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together, arms bracketing Crowley as he let him cling, let himself be bent over him. There was a shiver in the air, white wings curving to surround him completely. “You disappeared right in front of my eyes,” he murmured. “You were gone. I couldn’t <em>feel</em> you.”</p><p>Crowley hadn't seen him disappear before the bookshop had caught fire, but he knew what it was like not to be able to feel him, find him. He knew what it was like to seek, to reach endless coils into the void and not feel a familiar presence reaching back. “I know. It's the worst fucking feeling in the world,” he admitted, heart trembling in this safe place under soft, messy white wings. “But you found me, angel. M'alright, yeah?”</p><p>“Yes,” he replied after a pause, mouth downturned as he sighed. “It’s all rather ridiculous, I know. To be so worried about something out of either of our control, especially when you are right here. Safe and sound. But I suppose… so much was out of our control for so long, I thought we were past it all. Or I was starting to grow accustomed to it. Our newfound freedom. But it was always a worry for you.” He stroked through Crowley’s hair, so soft and fluffed up, pushing it away from his brow.</p><p>“Mng. Just full of things to worry about, me.” Crowley tipped into the touch, eyes briefly closing. “Get back in bed, would you? I’m not done with your lap yet.”</p><p>Aziraphale kissed his forehead, then tucked his wings away. He rolled into the empty half of the luxurious bed, propping himself up with several of the pillows at his disposal. With gentle hands, he coaxed Crowley into resting his head in his lap.</p><p>“How’s this?” he asked.</p><p>“Good.” Comfortable, Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands just to hold on. “It’s not ridiculous to worry about it. Though most of the time, it’s nothing. Just desperate people. These last two’ve just been bad luck.”</p><p>“Exceptionally bad luck.” Aziraphale resumed running his fingers through his hair, the hand that held Crowley’s squeezing to let him know he wasn’t going anywhere. “Though I suppose we’ve learned that at the very least you can pray to me from within a salt circle. That’s something.” He wished it could be something more. “You will, won’t you? Should it happen again?”</p><p>“‘Course.” He knew now, and there was no reason to keep him worried if he vanished again. “If it’s just salt, I can still do miracles within it. Easy as anything to get out of.”</p><p>“Just the iron and the holy water, then.”</p><p>“Yup.” Sighing, Crowley turned his hand to run a finger along the lines of his palm. “Y’know there’s GPS trackers in phones now. Part of why I have one was in case... <em>This</em>. But of course I didn’t have it. Everything went wrong this time. Nearly, anyway.”</p><p>“You couldn’t have known. You’d only taken off your blazer for a moment.” Aziraphale followed Crowley’s touch with his gaze. “I imagine one might need a similar device in order to track it?”</p><p>He looked up with a slow blink. “S’pose so. I’ve never thought about that.”</p><p>Aziraphale tilted his head, his hand shifting to stroke his cheek, thumb brushing just under wide, golden eyes. Where a scar would have been left if not for an angel’s healing. “How did you think the tracking device would work then, dearest?” he couldn’t help the gentle teasing.</p><p>“Your ancient bloody computer. I don't know.” He tipped just a little into the light touch, habit keeping him from more and closing his eyes to hide that simple desire. “It would've worked out.”</p><p>“Mm… well, it would be rather difficult to take my computer with me to go find you. As much as I like my current telephone, perhaps getting one like yours wouldn’t be such a terrible idea.” Aziraphale smiled down at him, heart swelling with love for the sweet serpent. “I did find it quite useful on the drive.”</p><p>“So you finally figured out the ansaphone and my mobile, and all it took was me being summoned. That's a shite trade, angel,” he complained, amusement colouring his tone. </p><p>“What can I say? I was willing to do whatever necessary to get you back.” Aziraphale tucked Crowley's hair behind his ear. </p><p>Crowley opened his eyes to look up at him, the strokes soothing in their sweet way. He lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and mumbled into the palm. “M'glad I was worth it.”</p><p>“Always,” Aziraphale assured him, heart beating heavy in his corporation's chest. “I love you.”</p><p>Crowley had to sit up. To press himself into all that warmth, and taste those words on his lips. He was still wary of the depths in his own heart, but he wanted to plumb Aziraphale’s. He wanted to learn it all, aching for want of it and still a little stunned it was felt at all.</p><p>Aziraphale opened his arms to him and let Crowley lean into him, into his love. He held him tight, encouraged Crowley to wrap himself around him and find a home in his strength. He could feel the tentative push and pull of Crowley’s love lapping like waves upon his shore, a steady, eternal pulse that he’d known for nearly his entire time on Earth. It said enough for him, for now. He wasn’t the one who needed the words when he had the feeling.</p><p>“I’ve got you, dearest,” he hummed as their lips parted, Aziraphale’s going on to feather kisses across his cheeks and nose. “I’m here. And I’ll do whatever I can to keep it that way.”</p><p>“You don't have to,” Crowley heard himself, fingertips digging into the edges of ancient habits even as he strained to reach something new. Old fears and new knowledge fought, tangling tight, and he wasn't sure how to handle the jumble. “You can. Y'know. Ssstay as long as you want. If I'm too- If you get- fngh.”</p><p>“I won’t,” he told him, even without knowing what exactly <em>fngh</em> meant in this context. Aziraphale could guess a few things.</p><p>“Angel...” Crowley traced patterns over the back of his waistcoat, trying to pull out words. If he could do it in a circle designed to hurt him, he could do it in the safest arms he could ever find. “I don’t know how much I... What all I've got for you, and it feels like too much. The first thing you learn in Hell if you want to survive is to bury everything. If it doesn't fit, y'know, being a <em>demon</em>, it gets dulled. If I- What if it's too much, and I can't lock it back up? I don't want to...”</p><p>Aziraphale gazed at him for a moment, eyes full of despair on his behalf and understanding. Of course Hell was like that, and they spent so many years shoving down their own feelings towards one another on top of it all. It was a valid fear.</p><p>“Dearest…” he started, then sighed as he grappled for words that would reach him and reassure him. “Angels are meant to be beings of love. We are meant to love humanity and one another, though you and I can say from experience that hasn’t always been the case. Isn’t the case for most of us. Yet… we should expect that our fellows love us, and naturally should have the capacity to welcome and hold the love of thousands of angels all at once. Now… I believe it’s safe to assume that since I am no longer affiliated with Heaven and do not feel their love or care for me, there is more than enough space for as much muchness that you feel and then some. It’s entirely yours. It’s only ever been yours. I want all of it, Crowley. Everything you have to offer, there’s space for it and there always will be.”</p><p>It could still be too much. Too big. It was terrifying to Crowley still, but Aziraphale was looking at him, waiting for him, supposedly ready. And the idea of him not having access to the full love Crowley could still remember from Before was unacceptable. Even a <em>shade</em> of Falling was too much for Aziraphale to have to feel. That cold, hollow space the holy water had tried so hard to fill while he'd been trapped wasn't something he wanted Aziraphale to ever suffer. </p><p>Unable to look at him, wary of seeing Aziraphale overwhelmed or regretful and warier still of being pushed away, Crowley pulled away first. He sat back on his heels, swallowed hard, and let himself trust enough to allow the barrier to crumble. Six thousand years of building it, brick by brick, ache by ache, so Aziraphale wouldn’t know, wouldn't see the full depths of his heart, fell.</p><p>Crowley stared at his knees, at the hands he'd fisted over his thighs without seeing them. Six thousand years of loving and denying, of wanting and walking away. Six thousand years of meals, drinks, secret smiles, codes, temptations and blessings, rescues, arguments, hurt feelings, long naps, the fourteenth fucking century. Holy water fight and gift alike. Losing him to flame, having him back, safe and whole. The worst pain and the greatest relief. </p><p>Six thousand years. A seed planted by a panicked <em>I gave it away</em> had grown into a beanstalk even Jack wouldn't have climbed. Still, it grew ever grander even as he finally let it unfurl. As he avoided Aziraphale’s gaze and let his love loose for both of them, Crowley trembling and blinded by the enormity of it. This thing he'd been told, before there had ever been a garden, that he would never feel again stole his breath, and he didn't want it back. Loving Aziraphale was a great, imperfect, wonderful, ache of a thing. </p><p>No. No, he'd never be able to lock this back up. It made that hollow space seem so very small by comparison, how could he lose it? “Oh...” he breathed, not quite able to say anything more as his very soul was rocked by everything he had for this angel. </p><p>A slow surge of light spread through the room, emanating from Aziraphale as he stared at Crowley in complete wonder and awe. Love crested over him like a tsunami instead of that ever-present wave, flowing freely between every plane they existed on and running deeper than their earthly vessels. Like Crowley’s prayers, it rang through his entire being, singing at a frequency unknown to the Earth. It was overwhelming. He’d never experienced anything like this. Not a love so wholly and irrevocably for him and everything that made him who he was. Even the Almighty’s love, a constant hum of grace in his very center, was entirely different and not at all comparable to what he felt radiating from Crowley. A demon’s love.</p><p>He’d known Crowley loved him since 1941, could identify that unassuming presence as something centered on him, but he’d had no idea it was this great.</p><p>Aziraphale’s halo shimmered, growing brighter as he basked in the wealth of Crowley’s love. “Oh,” he echoed, soft so as not to disturb the current he was happily swept up in, though he did reach for his hands, laying his own over them with the gentlest touch. “<em>Crowley</em>.” </p><p>Crowley turned his hands, carefully unfurling his fists so their palms could meet. He had to take a steadying breath before he looked up, the holy brightness of his halo stinging just a little. It’s nowhere near enough for Crowley to ask him to turn it down, even as a joke. He was stunning, curls reflecting the golden light and eyes shining. The love grew somehow, settling in Crowley’s chest in a way that felt incredibly right for having been smothered for so long. “S’not too much then, angel?”</p><p>He shook his head, eyes a brilliant shade of blue, reflecting Crowley’s love right back at him. “You’ve kept all of this hidden all this time?” he marvelled. </p><p>“I told you I understood why things were always... how they had to be. It’s- I didn’t know <em>how</em> much it was, but I knew it was a lot. Can’t even imagine having to sneak out during one of your bloody check-ins with this just...” He couldn’t wave a hand, unwilling to release either of Aziraphale’s, so shrugged to get the point across just as well. “We don’t have to worry about that, though.” Not Archangels feeling the strong waves or demons suspecting he cared about anything more than mayhem. “I can... I can just <em>feel</em> this.” He looked down at their hands. “<em>I</em> can feel this?”</p><p>“You can, oh, it’s so entirely you. I had no idea… of course, I knew you could love, my dear, that you loved <em>me</em>, but this…” Aziraphale trembled as he squeezed Crowley's hands, finally registering the glow of his halo and dialing it back to spare Crowley the sting of it. “I did wonder, occasionally, if one day you would… change your mind. That I would demand too much from you. It was silly of me, of course, and now feeling this… well, I can't say I have any doubts.” Aziraphale brought his hands up to his lips, brushing a kiss to Crowley's knuckles. “Please don't stop feeling this. Don't hide it.”</p><p>Crowley watched him, brow furrowing as his protest died on his tongue. The same protest he’d made during their argument before being summoned. He <em>had</em> done things to stir doubt. Their dance had worked, on some level, by playing on doubt. Aziraphale with his denials and the deliberate space put between them and Crowley by never contradicting him and by hiding. No need to vocally deny what was never really expressed, not in a way an angel would know.</p><p>For the first time since the world hadn’t ended, his feet felt as if they were on solid ground. “I won’t,” he promised. “You can know all of this is here, Aziraphale, and it’s yours.”</p><p>“As my love is yours,” Aziraphale promised, drawing Crowley close once more to seal their lips together in a kiss they could both sink into, touch firm and grounding. A reminder that they were together and would be for as long as the world kept turning and maybe even beyond that.</p><p>Though Aziraphale did break the kiss to hum, “And I suppose I love you enough to give you your wall-less house. As long as we can also have large, picture windows overlooking your beautiful garden on the walls we do have.”</p><p>Laughing, Crowley delved his fingers into soft curls. “You’re also going to have to love me enough to watch some decorating shows so you can find out what exactly open concept means.”</p><p>“Well, you do have quite a large television in your lounge room. Perhaps I can miracle up a sofa for us and we can partake later tonight.”</p><p>“Later?”</p><p>“Yes. I’m afraid at present, I may be too distracted with kissing you to pay much attention to the open concepts. And I don’t know that I’ve sufficiently made up for how much I missed you yet.” Aziraphale flashed a cheeky grin at him before claiming his lips once again.</p><p>Crowley kissed back rather than laughed, though the joy reverberated through the love he was allowed to feel and, more importantly, allowed to share on their side. He was allowed to hear it, allowed to bask in this togetherness like he did the sun on a hot summer day. Oh, <em>heat</em>. That's what spread fast. He broke the kiss after all with a breathless, “Wildfire.”</p><p>Aziraphale's eyebrows knitted together. "What about wildfire?" he started to ask, but then Crowley was kissing him again, and he decided he didn't really need to know in the moment. Their lips were otherwise occupied and they did have their own version of forever stretched ahead of them, both absolutely certain of that now. No questions.</p><p>Crowley would save the messages on his ansaphone, but he didn’t think he’d have to listen to them anytime soon. Not with Aziraphale whispering them against his skin as sweetly as his fingers stroked. There was love here, in both of them, and there always had been. It was just known now, shared as never before. </p><p>Being summoned was still the worst part of being a demon, should anyone ask him, but with this angel, it was manageable. And with both of them keeping an eye out for leaked copies of the book, perhaps there wouldn’t even be a twenty. Though, even if there was, Crowley had faith that Aziraphale would find him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">Syl</span><br/>Well, that was an emotional roller-coaster, start to finish.</p><p><span class="u">Skim</span><br/>I'm just so happy that they're happy now, lol.</p><p>Thank you for reading! 💖</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find us on tumblr at <a href="https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/">Syl-Writes-Stuff</a> &amp; <a href="https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/">skimmingmilk</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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